i 


WOMAN    TRIUMPHANT 

(LA  MAJA  DESNUDA) 

BY 

VICENTE  BLASCO  IBANEZ 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SPANISH 
BY 

HAYWARD  KENISTON 

WITH  A  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


.      y 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1    FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,   1920, 
BY  E.   P.   DUTTON   &  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


First  printing .  .  . 
Second  printing. 
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Fourth  printing . 
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Sixth  printing .  . 
Seventh  printing . 
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Eleventh  printing . 
Twelfth  yrinting  , 


.  .  .March,  1920 
.  .  .March,  1920 
..  .March,  1920 
.  .  .March,  1920 
.  .  .March,  1920 
..  March,  1920 
...March.  1920 
...March,  1920 
....April,  1920 

April,  1920 

April,  1920 

>JJL.  April.  1920. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


22. 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE    TO    THE    ENGLISH 
TRANSLATION 

THE  title  of  this  novel  in  the  original,  La  maja  desnuda, 
"The  Nude  Maja/'  is  also  the  name  of  one  of  the  most 
famous  pictures  of  the  great  Spanish  painter  Francisco 
Goya. 

The  word  maja  has  no  exact  equivalent  in  English  or  in 
any  of  the  modern  languages.  Literally,  it  means  "be- 
decked/' "showy,"  "gaudily  attired/'  "flashy,"  "dazzling/' 
etc.,  and  it  was  applied  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury and  at  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  to  a  certain 
class  of  gay  women  of  the  lower  strata  of  Madrid  society 
notorious  for  their  love  of  dancing  and  their  fondness  for 
exhibiting  themselves  conspicuously  at  bull-fights  and  all 
popular  celebrations.  The  great  ladies  of  the  aristocracy 
affected  the  free  ways  and  imitated  the  picturesque  dress 
of  the  maja;  Goya  made  this  type  the  central  figure  of 
many  of  his  genre  paintings,  and  the  dramatist  Ramon  de 
la  Cruz  based  most  of  his  sainetes — farcical  pieces  in 
one  act — upon  the  customs  and  rivalries  of  these  women. 
The  dress  invented  by  the  maja,  consisting  of  a  short  skirt 
partly  covered  by  a  net  with  berry-shaped  tassels,  white 
mcmtilla  and  high  shell-comb,  is  considered  all  over  the 
world  as  the  national  costume  of  Spanish  women. 

When  the  novel  first  appeared  in  Spain  some  years  ago, 
a  certain  part  of  the  Madrid  public,  unduly  evil-minded, 
thought  that  it  had  discovered  the  identity  of  the  real  per- 
sons whom  I  had  taken  as  models  to  draw  my  characters. 
This  claim  provoked  a  scandalous  sensation  and  gave  my 

437724 


vi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

book  an  unwholesome  notoriety.  It  was  thought  that  the 
protagonists  of  La  maja  desnuda  were  an  illustrious 
Spanish  painter  of  world-wide  fame,  who  is  my  friend, 
and  an  aristocratic  lady  very  celebrated  at  the  time  but 
now  forgotten.  I  protested  against  this  unwarranted  and 
fantastic  interpretation.  Although  I  draw  my  characters 
from  life,  I  do  so  only  in  a  very  fragmentary  way  (like 
all  the  great  creative  novelists  whom  I  admire  as  masters 
in  the  field  of  fiction),  using  the  materials  gathered  in  my 
observations  to  form  completely  new  types  which  are  the 
direct  and  legitimate  offspring  of  my  own  imagination. 
To  use  a  figure :  as  a  novelist  I  am  a  painter,  not  a  pho- 
tographer. Although  I  seek  my  inspiration  in  reality,  I 
copy  it  in  accordance  with  my  own  way  of  seeing  it; 
I  do  not  reproduce  it  with  the  mechanical  servility  of  the 
photographic  camera. 

It  is  possible  that  my  imaginary  heroes  are  vaguely 
reminiscent  of  beings  who  actually  exist.  Subconscious- 
ness  is  the  novelist's  principal  instrument,  and  this  sub- 
consciousness  frequently  mocks  us,  leading  us  to  mistake 
for  our  own  creation  the  things  which  we  have  unwit- 
tingly observed  in  Nature.  But  despite  this,  it  is  unfair, 
as  well  as  risky,  for  the  reader  to  assign  the  names  of  real 
persons  to  the  characters  of  fiction,  saying,  "This  is  So- 
and-so." 

It  would  be  equally  unfair  to  consider  this  novel  as 
audacious  or  of  doubtful  morality.  The  artistic  world 
which  I  describe  in  La  maja  desnuda  cannot  be  expected 
to  have  the  same  conception  of  life  as  the  conventional 
world.  Far  from  believing  it  immoral,  I  consider  this 
one  of  the  most  moral  novels  I  have  ever  written.  And 
it  is  for  this  reason  that,  with  a  full  realization  of  the 
standards  demanded  by  the  English-reading  public,  I  have 
not  hesitated  to  authorize  the  present  translation  without 
palliation  or  amputation,  fully  convinced  that  the  reader 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  V2 

will  not  find  anything  in  this  novel  objectionable  or  of- 
fensive to  his  moral  sense.  Morality  is  not  to  be  found  in 
words  but  in  deeds  and  in  the  lessons  which  these  deeds 
teach. 

The  difficulty  of  adequately  translating  the  word  maja 
into  English  led  to  the  adoption  of  "Woman  Triumphant" 
as  the  title  of  the  present  version.  I  believe  it  is  a  happy; 
selection;  it  interprets  the  spirit  of  the  novel.  But  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  woman  here  is  the  wife 
of  the  protagonist.  It  is  the  wife  who  triumphs,  resur- 
recting in  spirit  to  exert  an  overwhelming  influence  over 
the  life  of  a  man  who  had  wished  to  live  without  her. 

Renovales,  the  hero,  is  simply  the  personification  of 
human  desire,  this  poor  desire  which,  in  reality,  does  not 
know  what  it  wants,  eternally  fickle  and  unsatisfied. 
When  we  finally  obtain  what  we  desire,  it  does  not  seem 
enough.  "More:  I  want  more,"  we  say.  If  we  lose 
something  that  made  life  unbearable,  we  immediately 
wish  it  back  as  indispensable  to  our  happiness.  Such  are 
we :  poor  deluded  children  who  cried  yesterday  for  what 
we  scorn  to-day  and  shall  want  again  to-morrow;  poor 
deluded  beings  plunging  across  the  span  of  life  on  the 
Icarian  wings  of  caprice. 

VICENTE  BLASCO  IBANEZ. 

New  York,  January,  1920. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 


PARTI 


IT  was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Mariano 
.Renovales  reached  the  Museo  del  Prado.  Several  years 
had  passed  since  the  famous  painter  had  entered  it.  The 
dead  did  not  attract  him ;  very  interesting  they  were,  very 
worthy  of  respect,  under  the  glorious  shroud  of  the  cen- 
turies, but  art  was  moving  along  new  paths  and  he  could 
not  study  there  under  the  false  glare  of  the  skylights, 
where  he  saw  reality  only  through  the  temperaments  of 
other  men.  A  bit  of  sea,  a  mountainside,  a  group  of 
ragged  people,  an  expressive  head  attracted  him  more 
than  that  palace,  with  its  broad  staircases,  its  white  col- 
umns and  its  statues  of  bronze  and  alabaster — a  solemn 
pantheon  of  art,  where  the  neophytes  vacillated  in  fruit- 
less confusion,  without  knowing  what  course  to  follow. 

The  master  Renovales  stopped  for  a  few  moments  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairway.  He  contemplated  the  valley 
through  which  you  approach  the  palace — with  its  slopes 
of  fresh  turf,  dotted  at  intervals  with  the  sickly  little 
trees — with  a  certain  emotion,  as  men  are  wont  to  con- 
template, after  a  long  absence,  the  places  familiar  to  their 
youth.  Above  the  scattered  growth  the  ancient  church 
of  Los  Jeronimos,  with  its  gothic  masonry,  outlined 
against  the  blue  sky  its  twin  towers  and  ruined  arcades. 

i 


TRIUMPHANT 


The -wfritfy  foliage- cf£%*f fie  -Retire  served  as  a  background 
for  the  white  mass  of  the  Cason.  Renovales  thought  of 
the  frescos  of  Giordano  that  decorated  its  ceilings.  After- 
wards, he  fixed  his  attention  on  a  building  with  red  walls 
and  a  stone  portal,  which  pretentiously  obstructed  the 
space  in  the  foreground,  at  the  edge  of  the  green  slope. 
Bah !  The  Academy !  And  the  artist's  sneer  included  in 
the  same  loathing  the  Academy  of  Language  and  the 
other  Academies — painting,  literature,  every  manifesta- 
tion of  human  thought,  dried,  smoked,  and  swathed,  with 
the  immortality  of  a  mummy,  in  the  bandages  of  tradi- 
tion, rules,  and  respect  for  precedent. 

A  gust  of  icy  wind  shook  the  skirts  of  his  overcoat,  his 
long  beard  tinged  with  gray  and  his  wide  felt  hat,  be- 
neath the  brim  of  which  protruded  the  heavy  locks  of 
his  hair,  that  had  excited  so  much  comment  in  his  youth, 
but  which  had  gradually  grown  shorter  with  prudent 
trimming,  as  the  master  rose  in  the  world,  winning  fame 
and  money. 

Renovales  felt  cold  in  the  damp  valley.  It  was  one  of 
those  bright,  freezing  days  that  are  so  frequent  in  the 
winter  in  Madrid.  The  sun  was  shining;  the  sky  was 
blu£ ;  .but  from  the  mountains,  covered  with  snow,  came 
an  icy  wind,  that  hardened  the  ground,  making  it  as 
brittle  as  glass.  In  the  corners,  where  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  did  not  reach,  the  morning  frost  still  glistened  like 
a  coating  of  sugar.  On  the  mossy  carpet,  the  sparrows, 
thin  with  the  privations  of  winter,  trotted  back  and  forth 
like  children,  shaking  their  bedraggled  feathers. 

The  stairway  of  the  Museo  recalled  to  the  master  his 
early  youth,  when  at  sixteen  he  had  climbed  those  steps 
many  a  time  with  his  stomach  faint  from  the  wretched 
meal  at  the  boarding-house.  How  many  mornings  he  had 
spent  in  that  old  building  copying  Velasquez !  The  place 
brought  to  his  memory  his  dead  hopes,  a  host  of  illusions 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  3 

that  now  made  his  smile ;  recollections  of  hunger  and  hu- 
miliating bargaining  to  make  his  first  money  by  the  sale 
of  copies.  His  large,  stern  face,  his  brow  that  filled  his 
pupils  and  admirers  with  terror  lighted  up  with  a  merry 
smile.  He  recalled  how  he  used  to  go  into  the  Museo 
with  halting  steps,  how  he  feared  to  leave  the  easel,  lest 
people  might  notice  the  gaping  soles  of  his  boots  that 
left  his  feet  uncovered. 

He  passed  through  the  vestibule  and  opened  the  first 
glass  door.  Instantly  the  noises  of  the  world  outside 
ceased;  the  rattling  of  the  carriages  in  the  Prado;  the 
bells  of  the  street-cars,  the  dull  rumble  of  the  carts,  the 
shrill  cries  of  the  children  who  were  running  about  on 
the  slopes.  He  opened  the  second  door,  and  his  face, 
swollen  by  the  cold,  felt  the  caress  of  warm  air,  buzzing 
with  the  vague  hum  of  silence.  The  footfalls  of  the 
visitors  reverberated  in  the  manner  peculiar  to  large,  un- 
occupied buildings.  The  slam  of  the  door,  as  it  closed, 
resounded  like  a  cannon  shot,  passing  from  hall  to  hall 
through  the  heavy  curtains.  From  the  gratings  of  the 
registers  poured  the  invisible  breath  of  the  furnaces. 
The  people,  on  entering,  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  they 
were  in  a  cathedral;  their  faces  assumed  an  expression 
of  unnatural  seriousness,  as  though  they  were  intimidated 
by  the  thousands  of  canvases  that  lined  the  walls,  by 
the  enormous  busts  that  decorated  the  circle  of  the 
rotunda  and  the  middle  of  the  central  salon. 

On  seeing  Renovales,  the  two  door-keepers,  in  their 
long  frock-coats,  started  to  their  feet.  They  did  not 
know  who  he  was,  but  he  certainly  was  somebody.  They 
had  often  seen  that  face,  perhaps  in  the  newspapers,  per- 
haps on  match-boxes.  It  was  associated  in  their  minds 
with  the  glory  of  popularity,  with  the  high  honors  re- 
served for  people  of  distinction.  Presently  they  recog- 
nized him.  It  was  so  many  years  since  they  had  seen 


a  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

him  there!  And  the  two  attendants,  with  their  caps 
covered  with  gold-braid  in  their  hands  and  with  an 
obsequious  smile,  came  forward  towards  the  great  artist. 

"Good  morning,  Don  Mariano.  Did  Senor  de  Renovales 
wish  something?  Did  he  want  them  to  call  the  cura- 
tor ?"  They  spoke  with  oily  obsequiousness,  with  the  con- 
fusion of  courtiers  who  see  a  foreign  sovereign  suddenly 
enter  their  palace,  recognizing  him  through  his  disguise. 

Renovales  rid  himself  of  them  with  a  brusque  gesture 
and  cast  a  glance  over  the  large  decorative  canvases  of 
the  rotunda,  that  recalled  the  wars  of  the  I7th  century; 
generals  with  bristling  mustaches  and  plumed  slouch-hat, 
directing  the  battle  with  a  short  baton,  as  though  they 
were  directing  an  orchestra,  troops  of  arquebusiers  dis- 
appearing downhill  with  banners  of  red  and  blue  crosses 
at  their  front,  forests  of  pikes  rising  from  the  smoke, 
green  meadows  of  Flanders  in  the  backgrounds — thun- 
dering, fruitless  combats  that  were  almost  the  last  gasps 
of  a  Spain  of  European  influence.  He  lifted  a  heavy 
curtain  and  entered  the  spacious  salon,  where  the  people 
at  the  other  end  looked  like  little  wax  figures  under  the 
dull  illumination  of  the  skylights. 

The  artist  continued  straight  ahead,  scarcely  noticing 
the  pictures,  old  acquaintances  that  could  tell  him  nothing 
new.  His  eyes  sought  the  people  without,  however,  find- 
ing in  them  any  greater  novelty.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  formed  a  part  of  the  building  and  had  not  moved 
from  it  in  many  years;  good-natured  fathers  with  a 
group  of  children  before  their  knees,  explaining  the 
meaning  of  the  pictures ;  a  school  teacher,  with  her  well- 
behaved  and  silent  pupils  who,  in  obedience  to  the  com- 
mand of  their  superior,  passed  without  stopping  before 
the  lightly  clad  saints;  a  gentleman  with  two  priests, 
talking  loudly,  to  show  that  he  was  intelligent  and  almost 
at  home  there;  several  foreign  ladies  with  their  veils 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  5 

caught  up  over  their  straw  hats  and  their  coats  on  their 
arms,  consulting  the  catalogue,  all  with  a  sort  of  family 
air,  with  identical  expressions  of  admiration  and  curios- 
ity, until  Reno  vales  wondered  if  they  were  the  same 
ones  he  had  seen  there  years  before,  the  last  time  he  was 
there. 

As  he  parsed,  he  greeted  the  great  masters  mentally; 
on  one  side  the  holy  figures  of  El  Greco,  with  their 
greenish  or  bluish  spirituality,  slender  and  undulating; 
beyond,  the  wrinkled,  black  heads  of  Ribera,  with  fero- 
cious expressions  of  torture  and  pain — marvelous  artists, 
whom  Renovales  admired,  while  determined  not  to  imi- 
tate them.  Afterwards,  between  the  railing  that  protects 
the  pictures  and  the  line  of  busts,  show-cases  and  marble 
tables  supported  by  gilded  lions,  he  came  upon  the  easels 
of  several  copyists.  They  were  boys  from  the  School  of 
Fine  Arts,  or  poverty-stricken  young  ladies  with  run- 
down heels  and  dilapidated  hats,  who  were  copying 
Murillos.  They  were  tracing  on  the  canvas  the  blue  of 
the  Virgin's  robe  or  the  plump  flesh  of  the  curly-haired 
boys  that  played  with  the  Divine  Lamb.  Their  copies 
were  commissions  from  pious  people ;  a  genre  that  found 
an  easy  sale  among  the  benefactors  of  convents  and  ora- 
tories. The  smoke  of  the  candles,  the  wear  of  years, 
the  blindness  of  devotion  would  dim  the  colors,  and  some 
day  the  eyes  of  the  worshipers,  weeping  in  supplication, 
would  see  the  celestial  figures  move  with  mysterious  life 
on  their  blackened  background,  as  they  implored  from 
them  wondrous  miracles. 

The  master  made  his  way  toward  the  Hall  of  Velas- 
quez. It  was  there  that  his  friend  Tekli  was  working. 
His  visit  to  the  Museo  had  no  other  object  than  to  see 
the  copy  that  the  Hungarian  painter  was  making  of  the 
picture  of  Las  Meninas. 

The  day  before,  when  the  foreigner  was  announced  in 


6  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

his  studio,  he  had  remained  perplexed  for  a  long  while, 
looking  at  the  name  on  the  card.  Tekli!  And  then  all 
at  once  he  remembered  a  friend  of  twenty  years  before, 
when  he  lived  in  Rome ;  a  good-natured  Hungarian,  who 
admired  him  sincerely  and  who  made  up  for  his  lack  of 
genius  with  a  silent  persistency  in  his  work,  like  a  beast 
of  burden. 

Renovales  was  glad  to  see  his  little  blue  eyes,  hidden 
under  his  thin,  silky  eyebrows,  his  jaw,  protruding  like 
a  shovel,  a  feature  that  made  him  look  very  much  like  the 
Austrian  monarchs — his  tall  frame  that  bent  forward 
under  the  impulse  of  excitement,  while  he  stretched  out 
his  bony  arms,  long  as  tentacles,  and  greeted  him  in 
Italian : 

"Oh,  maestro,  oaro  maestro!" 

He  had  taken  refuge  in  a  professorship,  like  all  artists 
who  lack  the  power  to  continue  the  upward  climb,  who 
fall  in  the  rut.  Renovales  recognized  the  artist-official 
in  his  spotless  suit,  dark  and  proper,  in  his  dignified 
glance  that  rested  from  time  to  time  on  his  shining  boots 
that  seemed  to  reflect  the  whole  studio.  He  even  wore 
on  one  lapel  of  his  coat  the  variegated  button  of  some 
mysterious  decoration.  The  felt  hat,  white  as  meringue, 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  was  the  only  discordant  feature 
in  this  general  effect  of  a  public  functionary.  Renovales 
caught  his  hands  with  sincere  enthusiasm.  The  famous 
Tekli !  How  glad  he  was  to  see  him !  What  times  they 
used  to  have  in  Rome !  And  with  a  smile  of  kindly  su- 
periority he  listened  to  the  story  of  his  success.  He 
was  a  professor  in  Budapest;  every  year  he  saved  money 
in  order  to  go  and  study  in  some  celebrated  European 
museum.  At  last  he  had  succeeded  in  coming  to  Spain, 
fulfilling  the  desire  he  had  cherished  for  many  years. 

"Oh,  Velasquez!  uel  maestro,  caro  Mariano!" 

And  throwing  back  his  head,  with  a  dreamy  expression 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  7 

in  his  eyes,  he  moved  his  protruding  jaw  covered  with 
reddish  hair,  with  a  voluptuous  look,  as  though  he  were 
sipping  a  glass  of  his  sweet  native  Tokay. 

He  had  been  in  Madrid  for  a  month,  working  every 
morning  in  the  Museo.  His  copy  of  Las  Meninas  was 
almost  finished.  He  had  not  been  to  see  his  "Dear 
Mariano"  sooner  because  he  wanted  to  show  him  this 
work.  Would  he  come  and  see  him  some  morning  in  the 
Museo?  Would  he  give  him  this  proof  of  his  friend- 
ship? Renovales  tried  to  decline.  What  did  he  care 
for  a  copy  ?  But  there  was  an  expression  of  such  humble 
supplication  in  the  Hungarian's  little  eyes,  he  showered 
him  with  so  many  praises  of  his  great  triumphs,  expa- 
tiating on  the  success  that  his  picture  Man  Overboard! 
had  won  at  the  last  Budapest  Exhibition,  that  the  master 
promised  to  go  to  the  Museo. 

And  a  few  days  later,  one  morning  when  a  gentle- 
man whose  portrait  he  was  painting  canceled  his  ap- 
pointment, Renovales  remembered  his  promise  and  went 
to  the  Museo  del  Prado,  feeling,  as  he  entered,  the  same 
sensation  of  insignificance  and  homesickness  that  a  man 
suffers  on  returning  to  the  university  where  he  has 
passed  his  youth. 

When  he  found  himself  in  the  Hall  of  Velasquez,  he 
suddenly  felt  seized  with  religious  respect.  There  was 
a  painter!  The  painter!  All  his  irreverent  theories  of 
hatred  for  the  dead  were  left  outside  the  door.  The 
charm  of  those  canvases  that  he  had  not  seen  for  many 
years  rose  again — fresh,  powerful,  irresistible;  it  over- 
whelmed him,  awakening  his  remorse.  For  a  long  time 
he  remained  motionless,  turning  his  eyes  from  one  pic- 
ture to  another,  eager  to  comprise  in  one  glance  the 
whole  work  of  the  immortal,  while  around  him  the  hum 
of  curiosity  began  again. 

"Renovales!     That's  Renovales!" 


8  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

The  news  had  started  from  the  door,  spreading  through 
the  whole  Museo,  reaching  the  Hall  of  Velasquez  behind 
his  steps.  The  groups  of  curious  people  stopped  gazing 
at  the  pictures  to  look  at  that  huge,  self-possessed  man 
who  did  not  seem  to  realize  the  curiosity  that  surrounded 
him.  The  ladies,  as  they  went  from  canvas  to  canvas, 
looked  out  of  the  corner  of  their  eyes  at  the  celebrated 
artist  whose  portrait  they  had  seen  so  often.  They  found 
him  more  ugly,  more  commonplace  than  he  appeared  in 
the  engravings  in  the  papers.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  that  "porter"  had  talent  and  painted  women  so  well. 
Some  young  fellows  approached  to  look  at  him  more 
closely,  pretending  to  gaze  at  the  same  pictures  as  the 
master.  They  scrutinized  him,  noting  his  external  pecu- 
liarities with  that  desire  for  enthusiastic  imitation  which 
marks  the  novice.  Some  determined  to  copy  his  soft 
bow-tie  and  his  tangled  hair,  with  the  fantastic  hope  that 
this  would  give  them  a  new  spirit  for  painting.  Others 
complained  to  themselves  that  they  were  beardless  and 
could  not  display  the  curly  gray  whiskers  of  the  famous 
master. 

He,  with  his  keen  sensitiveness  to  praise,  was  not  long 
in  observing  the  atmosphere  of  curiosity  that  surrounded 
him.  The  young  copyists  seemed  to  stick  closer  to  their 
easels,  knitted  their  brows,  dilated  their  nostrils,  and 
moved  their  brushes  slowly,  with  hesitation,  knowing 
that  he  was  behind  them,  trembling  at  every  step  that 
sounded  on  the  inlaid  floor,  full  of  fear  and  desire  that 
he  might  deign  to  cast  a  glance  over  their  shoulders.  He 
divined  with  a  sort  of  pride  what  all  the  mouths  were 
whispering,  what  all  the  eyes  were  saying,  fixed  absent- 
mindedly  on  the  canvases  only  to  turn  toward  him. 

"It's   Renovales — the  painter  Renovales." 

The  master  looked  for  a  long  while  at  one  of  the 
copyists — an  old  man,  decrepit  and  almost  blind,  with 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  9 

heavy  convex  spectacles  that  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
a  sea-monster,  whose  hands  trembled  with  senile  un- 
steadiness. Renovales  recognized  him.  Twenty  years 
before,  when  he  used  to  study  in  the  Museo,  he  had  seen 
him  in  the  same  spot,  always  copying  Los  Borrachos. 
Even  if  he  should  become  completely  blind,  if  the  picture 
should  be  lost,  he  could  reproduce  it  by  feeling.  In  those 
days  they  had  often  talked  together,  but  the  poor  man 
could  not  have  the  remotest  suspicion  that  the  Renovales 
whom  people  talked  so  much  about  was  the  same  lad 
who  on  more  than  one  occasion  had  borrowed  a  brush 
from  him,  but  whose  memory  was  scarcely  preserved  in 
his  mind,  mummified  by  eternal  imitation. 

Renovales  thought  of  the  kindness  of  the  chummy 
Bacchus  and  the  gang  of  ruffians  of  his  court,  who  for 
half  a  century  had  been  supporting  the  household  of  the 
copyist,  and  he  fancied  he  could  see  the  old  wife,  the 
married  children,  the  grandchildren — a  whole  family 
supported  by  the  old  man's  trembling  hand. 

Some  one  whispered  to  him  the  news  that  was  filling 
the  Museo  with  excitement  and  the  copyist,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  disdainfully,  raised  his  moribund  glance  from 
his  work. 

And  so  Renovales  was  there,  the  famous  Renovales! 
At  last  he  was  going  to  see  the  prodigy! 

The  master  saw  those  grotesque  eyes  like  those  of  a 
sea-monster,  fixed  on  him,  with  an  ironical  gleam  behind 
the  heavy  lenses.  The  grafter!  He  had  already  heard 
of  that  studio,  as  splendid  as  a  palace,  behind  the  Retiro. 
What  Renovales  had  in  such  plenty  had  been  taken  from 
men  like  him  who,  for  want  of  influence,  had  been  left 
behind.  He  charged  thousands  of  dollars  for  a  canvas, 
when  Velasquez  worked  for  three  pesetas  a  day  and 
Goya  painted  his  portraits  for  a  couple  of  doubloons. 
Deceit,  modernism,  the  audacity  of  the  younger  genera- 


10  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

tion  that  lacked  scruples,  the  ignorance  of  the  simpletons 
that  believe  the  newspapers!  The  only  good  thing  was 
right  there  before  him.  And  once  more  shrugging  his 
shoulders  scornfully,  he  lost  his  expression  of  ironical 
protest  and  returned  to  his  thousandth  copy  of  Los  Bor- 
rachos. 

Renovales,  seeing  that  the  curiosity  about  him  was 
diminishing,  entered  the  little  hall  that  contained  the 
picture  of  Las  Meninas.  There  was  Tekli  in  front  of 
the  famous  canvas  that  occupies  the  whole  back  of  the 
room,  seated  before  his  easel,  with  his  white  hat  pushed 
back  to  leave  free  his  throbbing  brow  that  was  contracted 
with  a  tenacious  insistence  on  accuracy. 

Seeing  Renovales,  he  rose  hastily,  leaving  his  palette 
on  the  piece  of  oil-cloth  that  protected  the  floor  from 
spots  of  paint.  Dear  master !  How  thankful  he  was  to 
him  for  this  visit!  And  he  showed  him  the  copy, 
minutely  accurate  but  without  the  wonderful  atmosphere, 
without  the  miraculous  realism  of  the  original.  Reno- 
vales  approved  with  a  nod;  he  admired  the  patient  toil 
of  that  gentle  ox  of  art,  whose  furrows  were  always  alike, 
of  geometric  precision,  without  the  slightest  negligence 
or  the  least  attempt  at  originality. 

"Ti  place?''  he  asked  anxiously,  looking  into  his  eyes 
to  divine  his  thoughts.  ffE  vero?  £  vero?"  he  repeated 
with  the  uncertainty  of  a  child  who  fears  that  he  is  being 
deceived. 

And  suddenly  calmed  by  the  evidences  of  Renovales' 
approval,  that  kept  growing  more  extravagant  to  conceal 
his  indifference,  the  Hungarian  grasped  both  of  his  hands 
and  lifted  them  to  his  breast. 

"Sono  contento,  maestro,  sono  contento." 

He  did  not  want  to  let  Renovales  go.  Since  he  had 
had  the  generosity  to  come  and  see  his  work,  he  could 
not  let  him  go  away,  they  would  lunch  together  at  the 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  11 

hotel  where  he  lived.  They  would  open  a  bottle  of 
Chianti  to  recall  their  life  in  Rome ;  they  would  talk  of 
the  merry  Bohemian  days  of  their  youth,  of  those  com- 
rades of  various  nationalities  that  used  to  gather  in  the 
Cafe  del  Greco, — some  already  dead,  the  rest  scattered 
through  Europe  and  America,  a  few  celebrated,  the  ma- 
jority vegetating  in  the  schools  of  their  native  land, 
dreaming  of  a  final  masterpiece  before  which  death 
would  probably  overtake  them. 

Renovales  felt  overcome  by  the  insistence  of  the  Hun- 
garian, who  seized  his  hands  with  a  dramatic  expression, 
as  though  he  would  die  at  a  refusal.  Good  for  the 
Chianti!  They  would  lunch  together,  and  while  Tekli 
was  giving  a  few  touches  to  his  work,  he  would  wait  for 
him,  wandering  through  the  Museo,  renewing  old  mem- 
ories. 

When  he  returned  to  the  Hall  of  Velasquez,  the  assem- 
blage had  diminished;  only  the  copyists  remained  bend- 
ing over  their  canvases.  The  painter  felt  anew  the  in- 
fluence of  the  great  master.  He  admired  his  wonderful 
art,  feeling  at  the  same  time  the  intense,  historical  sad- 
ness that  seemed  to  emanate  from  all  of  his  work.  Poor 
Don  Diego !  He  was  born  in  the  most  melancholy  period 
of  Spanish  history.  His  sane  realism  was  fitted  to  im- 
mortalize the  human  form  in  all  its  naked  beauty  and 
fate  had  provided  him  a  period  when  women  looked  like 
turtles,  with  their  heads  and  shoulders  peeping  out  be- 
tween the  double  shell  of  their  inflated  gowns,  and  when 
men  had  a  sacerdotal  stiffness,  raising  their  dark,  ill- 
washed  heads  above  their  gloomy  garb.  He  had  painted 
what  he  saw;  fear  and  hypocrisy  were  reflected  in  the 
eyes  of  that  world.  In  the  jesters,  fools  and  humpbacks 
immortalized  by  Don  Diego  was  revealed  the  forced 
merriment  of  a  dying  nation  that  must  needs  find  distrac- 
tion in  the  monstrous  and  absurd.  The  hypochondriac 


12  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

temper  of  a  monarchy  weak  in  body  and  fettered  in  spirit 
by  the  terrors  of  hell,  lived  in  all  those  masterpieces,  that 
inspired  at  once  admiration  and  sadness.  Alas  for  the 
artistic  treasures  wasted  in  immortalizing  a  period  which 
without  Velasquez  would  have  fallen  into  utter  oblivion ! 

Renovales  thought,  too,  of  the  man,  comparing  with  a 
feeling  of  remorse  the  great  painter's  life  with  the 
princely  existence  of  the  modern  masters.  Ah,  the  mu- 
nificence of  kings,  their  protection  of  artists,  that  people 
talked  about  in  their  enthusiasm  for  the  past!  He 
thought  of  the  peaceful  Don  Diego  and  his  salary  of  three 
pesetas  as  court  painter,  which  he  received  only  at  rare 
intervals;  of  his  glorious  name  figuring  among  those  of 
jesters  and  barbers  in  the  list  of  members  of  the  king's 
household,  forced  to  accept  the  office  of  appraiser  of 
masonry  to  improve  his  situation,  of  the  shame  and 
humiliation  of  his  last  years  in  order  to  gain  the  Cross  of 
Santiago,  denying  as  a  crime  before  the  tribunal  of  the 
Orders  that  he  had  received  money  for  his  pictures,  de- 
claring with  servile  pride  his  position  as  servant  of  the 
king,  as  though  this  title  were  superior  to  the  glory  of  an 
artist.  Happy  days  of  the  present,  blessed  revolution 
of  modern  life,  that  dignifies  the  artist,  and  places  him 
under  the  protection  of  the  public,  an  impersonal  sov- 
ereign that  leaves  the  creator  of  beauty  free  and  ends  by 
even  following  him  in  new-created  paths! 

Renovales  went  up  to  the  central  gallery  in  search  of 
another  of  his  favorites.  The  works  of  Goya  filled  a  large 
space  on  both  walls.  On  one  side  the  portraits  of  the 
kings  and  queens  of  the  Bourbon  decadence;  heads  of 
monarchs,  or  princes,  crushed  under  their  white  wigs ; 
sharp  feminine  eyes,  bloodless  faces,  with  their  hair 
combed  in  the  form  of  a  tower.  The  two  great  painters 
had  coincided  in  their  lives  with  the  moral  downfall  of 
two  dynasties.  In  the  Hall  of  Velasquez  the  thin,  bony, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  13 

fair-haired  kings,  of  monastic  grace  and  anaemic  pallor, 
with  their  protruding  under- jaws,  and  in  their  eyes  an 
expression  of  doubt  and  fear  for  the  salvation  of  their 
souls.  Here,  the  corpulent,  clumsy  monarchs,  with  their 
huge,  heavy  noses,  fate  fully  pendulous,  as  though  by 
some  mysterious  relation  they  were  dragging  on  the 
brain,  paralyzing  its  functions;  their  thick  underlips, 
hanging  in  sensual  inertia;  their  eyes,  calm  as  those  of 
cattle,  reflecting  in  their  tranquil  light  indifference  for 
everything  that  did  not  directly  concern  their  own  well- 
being.  The  Austrians,  nervous,  restless,  vacillating  with 
the  fever  of  insanity,  riding  on  theatrical  chargers,  in 
dark  landscapes,  bounded  by  the  snowy  crests  of  the 
Guadarrama,  as  sad,  cold  and  crystallized  as  the  soul  of 
the  nation ;  the  Bourbons,  peaceful,  adipose,  resting — sur- 
feited— on  their  huge  calves,  without  any  other  thought 
than  the  hunt  of  the  following  day  or  the  domestic  in- 
trigue that  would  set  the  family  in  dissension,  deaf  to 
the  storms  that  thundered  beyond  the  Pyrenees.  The 
one,  surrounded  by  brutal-faced  imbeciles,  by  gloomy  pet- 
tifoggers, by  Infantas  with  childish  faces  and  the  hollow 
skirts  of  a  Virgin's  image  on  an  altar;  the  others  bringing 
as  a  merry,  unconcerned  retinue,  a  rabble  clad  in  bright 
colors,  wrapped  in  scarlet  capes  or  lace  mantillas, 
crowned  with  ornamental  combs  or  masculine  hats — a 
race  that,  without  knowing  it,  was  sapping  its  heroism  in 
picnics  at  the  Canal  or  in  grotesque  amusements.  The 
lash  of  invasion  aroused  them  from  their  century-long 
infancy.  The  same  great  artist  that  for  many  years  had 
portrayed  the  simple  thoughtlessness  of  this  gay  people, 
showy  and  light-hearted  as  a  comic-opera  chorus,  after- 
wards painted  them,  knife  in  hand,  attacking  the  Mame- 
lukes with  the  agility  of  monkeys,  felling  those  Egyptian 
centaurs  under  their  slashes,  blackened  with  the  smofce 
of  a  hundred  battles,  or  dying  with  theatrical  pride  by 


[14  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  light  of  a  lantern  in  the  gloomy  solitude  of  Moncloa, 
shot  by  the  invaders. 

Reno  vales  admired  the  tragic  atmosphere  of  the  can- 
vas before  him.  The  executioners  hid  their  faces,  lean- 
ing on  their  guns;  they  were  the  blind  executors  of  fate, 
a  nameless  force,  and  before  them  rose  the  pile  of  palpi- 
tating, bloody  flesh;  the  dead  with  strips  of  flesh  torn 
off  by  the  bullets,  showing  reddish  holes,  the  living  with 
folded  arms,  defying  the  murderers  in  a  tongue  they 
could  not  understand,  or  covering  their  faces  with  their 
hands,  as  though  this  instinctive  movement  could  save 
them  from  the  lead.  A  whole  people  died,  to  be  born 
again.  And  beside  this  picture  of  horror  and  heroism, 
in  another  close  to  it,  he  saw  Palafox,  the  Leonidas  of 
Saragossa,  mounted  on  horseback,  with  his  stylish  whis- 
kers and  the  arrogance  of  a  blacksmith  in  a  captain-gen- 
eral's uniform,  having  in  his  bearing  something  of  the 
appearance  of  a  popular  chieftain,  holding  in  one  hand, 
gloved  in  buckskin,  the  curved  saber,  and  in  the  other  the 
reins  of  his  stocky,  big-bellied  steed. 

Renovales  thought  that  art  is  like  light,  which  acquires 
color  and  brightness  from  the  objects  it  touches.  Goya 
had  passed  through  a  stormy  period ;  he  had  been  a  spec- 
tator of  the  resurrection  of  the  soul  of  the  people  and 
his  painting  contained  the  tumultuous  life,  the  heroic 
fury  that  you  look  for  in  vain  in  the  canvases  of  that 
other  genius,  tied  as  he  was  to  the  monotonous  existence 
of  the  palace,  unbroken  except  by  the  news  of  distant 
wars  in  which  they  had  little  interest  and  whose  victories, 
too  late  to  be  useful,  had  the  coldness  of  doubt. 

The  painter  turned  away  from  the  dames  of  Goya,  clad 
in  white  cambric,  with  their  rosebud  mouths  and  with 
their  hair  done  up  like  a  turban,  to  concentrate  his  atten- 
tion on  a  nude  figure,  the  luminous  gleam  of  whose  flesh 
seemed  to  throw  the  adjacent  canvases  in  a  shadow. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  15 

He  contemplated  it  closely  for  a  long  time,  bending  over 
the  railing  till  the  brim  of  his  hat  almost  touched  the 
canvas.  Then  he  gradually  moved  away,  without  ceasing 
to  look  at  it,  until,  at  last,  he  sat  down  on  a  bench,  still 
facing  the  picture  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it. 

"Goya's  Maja.    The  Maja  Desnuda!" 

He  spoke  aloud,  without  realizing  it,  as  if  his  words 
were  the  inevitable  outburst  of  the  thoughts  that  rushed 
into  his  mind  and  seemed  to  pass  back  and  forth  behind 
the  lenses  of  his  eyes.  His  expressions  of  admiration 
were  in  different  tones,  marking  a  descending  scale  of 
memories. 

The  painter  looked  with  delight  at  the  gracefully  deli- 
cate form,  luminous,  as  though  within  it  burned  the 
flame  of  life,  showing  through  the  pearl-pale  flesh.  A 
shadow,  scarcely  perceptible,  veiled  in  mystery  of  her 
femininity ;  the  light  traced  a  bright  spot  on  her  smoothly 
rounded  knees  and  once  more  the  shadow  reached  down 
to  her  tiny  feet  with  their  delicate  toes,  rosy  and  babyish. 

The  woman  was  small,  graceful,  and  dainty;  the 
Spanish  Venus  with  no  more  flesh  than  was  necessary  to 
cover  her  supple,  shapely  frame  with  softly  curving  out- 
lines. Her  amber  eyes  that  flashed  slyly,  were  discon- 
certing with  their  gaze;  her  mouth  had  in  its  graceful 
corners  the  fleeting  touch  of  an  eternal  smile;  on  her 
cheeks,  elbows  and  feet  the  pink  tone  showed  the  trans- 
parency and  the  moist  brilliancy  of  those  shells  that  open 
their  mysterious  colors  in  the  secret  depths  of  the  sea. 

"Goya's  Maja.    The  Maja  Desnuda!" 

He  no  longer  said  these  words  aloud,  but  his  thought 
and  his  expression  repeated  them,  his  smile  was  their 
echo. 

Renovales  was  not  alone.  From  time  to  time  groups 
of  visitors  passed  back  and  forth  between  his  eyes  and 
the  picture,  talking  loudly.  The  tread  of  heavy  feet 


16  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

shook  the  wooden  floor.  It  was  noon  and  the  bricklayers 
from  nearby  buildings  were  taking  advantage  of  the 
noon  hour  to  explore  those  salons  as  if  it  were  a  new 
world,  delighting  in  the  warm  air  of  the  furnaces.  As 
they  went,  they  left  footprints  of  plaster  on  the  floor; 
they  called  out  to  each  other  to  share  their  admiration 
before  a  picture ;  they  were  impatient  to  take  it  all  in  at 
a  single  glance;  they  waxed  enthusiastic  over  the  war- 
riors in  their  shining  armor  or  the  elaborate  uniforms  of 
olden  times.  The  cleverest  among  them  served  as  guides 
to  their  companions,  driving  them  impatiently.  They 
had  been  there  the  day  before.  Go  ahead!  There  was 
still  a  lot  to  see!  And  they  ran  toward  the  inner  halls 
with  the  breathless  curiosity  of  men  who  tread  on  new 
ground  and  expect  something  marvelous  to  rise  before 
their  steps. 

Amid  this  rush  of  simple  admirers  there  passed,  too, 
some  groups  of  Spanish  ladies.  All  did  the  same  thing 
before  Goya's  work,  as  if  they  had  been  previously 
coached.  They  went  from  picture  to  picture,  comment- 
ing on  the  fashions  of  the  past,  feeling  a  sort  of  longing 
for  the  curious  old  crinolines  and  the  broad  mantillas 
with  the  high  combs.  Suddenly  they  became  serious, 
drew  their  lips  together  and  started  at  a  quick  pace  for 
the  end  of  the  gallery.  Instinct  warned  them.  Their 
restless  eyes  felt  hurt  by  the  nude  in  the  distance;  they 
seemed  to  scent  the  famous  Maja  before  they  saw  her 
and  they  kept  on — erect,  with  severe  countenances,  just 
as  if  they  were  annoyed  by  some  rude  fellow's  advances 
in  the  street — passing  in  front  of  the  picture  without 
turning  their  faces,  without  seeing  even  the  adjacent 
pictures  nor  stopping  till  they  reached  the  Hall  of 
Murillo. 

It  was  the  hatred  for  the  nude,  the  Christian,  century- 
old  abomination  of  Nature  and  truth,  that  rose  instinc- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  17 

lively  to  protest  against  the  toleration  of  such  horrors  in 
a  public  building  which  was  peopled  with  saints,  kings  and 
ascetics. 

Renovales  worshiped  the  canvas  with  ardent  devotion, 
and  placed  it  in  a  class  by  itself.  It  was  the  first  mani- 
festation in  Spanish  history  of  art  that  was  free  from 
scruples,  unhampered  by  prejudice.  Three  centuries  of 
painting,  several  generations  of  glorious  names,  suc- 
ceeded one  another  with  wonderful  fertility;  but  not 
until  Goya  had  the  Spanish  brush  dared  to  trace  the 
form  of  a  woman's  body,  the  divine  nakedness  that 
among  all  peoples  has  been  the  first  inspiration  of  nascent 
art.  Renovales  remembered  another  nude,  the  Venus  of 
Velasquez,  preserved  abroad.  But  that  work  had  not 
been  spontaneous;  it  was  a  commission  of  the  monarch 
who,  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  paying  foreigners 
lavishly  for  their  studies  in  the  nude,  wished  to  have  a 
similar  canvas  by  his  court-painter. 

Religious  oppression  had  obscured  art  for  centuries. 
Human  beauty  terrified  the  great  artists,  who  painted 
with  a  cross  on  their  breasts  and  a  rosary  on  their  sword- 
hilts.  Bodies  were  hidden  under  the  stiff,  heavy  folds 
of  sackcloth  or  the  grotesque,  courtly  crinoline,  and  the 
painter  never  ventured  to  guess  what  was  beneath  them, 
looking  at  the  model,  as  the  devout  worshiper  contem- 
plates the  hollow  mantle  of  the  Virgin,  not  knowing 
whether  it  contains  a  body  or  three  sticks  to  hold  up  the 
head.  The  joy  of  life  was  a  sin.  In  vain  a  sun  fairer 
than  that  of  Venice  shone  on  Spanish  soil,  futile  was  the 
light  that  burned  upon  the  land  with  a  brighter  glow  than 
that  of  Flanders:  Spanish  art  was  dark,  lifeless,  sober, 
even  after  it  knew  the  works  of  Titian.  The  Renais- 
sance, that  in  the  rest  of  the  world  worshiped  the  nude 
as  the  supreme  work  of  Nature,  was  covered  here  with 
the  monk's  cowl  or  the  beggar's  rags.  The  shining  land- 


18  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

scapes  were  dark  and  gloomy  when  they  reached  the 
canvas;  under  the  brush  the  land  of  the  sun  appeared 
with  a  gray  sky  and  grass  that  was  a  mournful  green; 
the  heads  had  a  monkish  gravity.  The  artist  placed  in 
his  pictures  not  what  surrounded  him,  but  what  he  had 
within  him,  a  piece  of  his  soul — and  his  soul  was  fettered 
by  the  fear  of  dangers  in  the  present  life  and  torments  in 
the  life  to  come ;  it  was  black — black  with  sadness,  as  if 
it  were  dyed  in  the  soot  of  the  fires  of  the  autos-de-fe. 

That  naked  woman  with  her  curly  head  resting  on  her 
folded  arms  was  the  awakening  of  an  art  that  had  lived 
in  isolation.  The  slight  frame,  that  scarcely  rested  on 
the  green  divan  and  the  fine  lace  cushions,  seemed  on  the 
point  of  rising  in  the  air  with  the  mighty  impulse  of 
resurrection. 

Renovales  thought  of  the  two  masters,  equally  great, 
and  still  so  different.  One  had  the  imposing  majesty 
of  famous  monuments — serene,  correct,  cold,  filling  the 
horizon  of  history  with  their  colossal  mass,  growing  old 
in  glory  without  the  centuries  opening  the  least  crack  in 
their  marble  walls.  On  all  sides  the  same  fagade — noble, 
symmetrical,  calm,  without  the  vagaries  of  caprice.  It 
was  reason — solid,  well-balanced,  alien  to  enthusiasm  and 
weakness,  without  feverish  haste.  The  other  was  as 
great  as  a  mountain,  with  the  fantastic  disorder  of 
Nature,  covered  with  tortuous  inequalities.  On  one  side 
the  wild,  barren  cliff;  beyond,  the  glen,  covered  with 
blossoming  heath;  below,  the  garden  with  its  perfumes 
and  birds;  on  the  heights,  the  crown  of  dark  clouds, 
heavy  with  thunder  and  lightning.  It  was  imagination 
in  unbridled  career,  with  breathless  halts  and  new  flights 
— its  brow  in  the  infinite  and  its  feet  implanted  on  earth. 

The  life  of  Don  Diego  was  summed  up  in  these  words : 
"He  had  painted/'  That  was  his  whole  biography. 
Never  in  his  travels  in  Spain  and  Italy  did  he  feel  curious 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  19 

to  see  anything  but  pictures.  In  the  court  of  the  Poet- 
king,  he  had  vegetated  amid  gallantries  and  masquerades, 
calm  as  a  monk  of  painting,  always  standing  before  his 
canvas  and  model — to-day  a  jester,  to-morrow  a  little 
Infanta — without  any  other  desire  than  to  rise  in  rank 
among  the  members  of  the  royal  household,  to  see  a 
cross  of  red  cloth  sewed  on  his  black  jerkin.  He  was  a 
lofty  soul,  enclosed  in  a  phlegmatic  body  that  never  tor- 
mented him  with  nervous  desires  nor  disturbed  the  calm, 
of  his  work  with  violent  passions.  When  he  died  the 
good  Dona  Juana,  his  wife,  died  too,  as  though  they 
sought  each  other,  unable  to  remain  apart  after  their 
long,  uneventful  pilgrimage  through  the  world. 

Goya  "had  lived."  His  life  was  that  of  the  nobleman- 
artist — a  stormy  novel,  full  of  mysterious  amours.  His 
pupils,  on  parting  the  curtains  of  his  studio,  saw  the  silk 
of  royal  skirts  on  their  master's  knees.  The  dainty 
duchesses  of  the  period  resorted  to  that  robust  Aragonese 
of  rough,  manly  gallantry  to  have  him  paint  their  cheeks, 
laughing  like  mad  at  these  intimate  touches.  When  he 
contemplated  some  divine  beauty  on  the  tumbled  bed,  he 
transferred  her  form  to  the  canvas  by  an  irresistible 
impulse,  an  imperious  necessity  of  reproducing  beauty; 
and  the  legend  that  floated  about  the  Spanish  artist  con- 
nected an  illustrious  name  with  all  the  beauties  whom  his 
brush  immortalized. 

To  paint  without  fear  or  prejudice,  to  take  delight  in 
reproducing  on  canvas  the  glory  of  the  nude,  the  lus- 
trous amber  of  woman's  flesh  with  its  pale  roses  like  a 
sea-shell,  was  Renovales'  desire  and  envy ;  to  live  like  the 
famous  Don  Francisco — a  free  bird  with  restless,  shining 
plumage  in  the  midst  of  the  monotony  of  the  human 
barn-yard ;  in  his  passions,  in  his  diversions,  in  his  tastes, 
to  be  different  from  the  majority  of  men,  since  he  was 


20  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

already  different  from  them  in  his  way  of  appreciating 
life. 

But,  ah !  his  existence  was  like  that  of  Don  Diego — un- 
broken, monotonous,  laid  out  by  level  in  a  straight  line. 
He  painted,  but  he  did  not  live.  People  praised  his 
work  for  the  accuracy  with  which  he  reproduced  Nature, 
for  the  gleam  of  light,  for  the  indefinable  color  of  the 
atmosphere,  and  the  exterior  of  things;  but  something 
was  lacking,  something  that  stirred  within  him  and 
fought  in  vain  to  leap  the  vulgar  barriers  of  daily  ex- 
istence. 

The  memory  of  the  romantic  life  of  Goya  made  him 
think  of  his  own  life.  People  called  him  a  master ;  they 
bought  everything  he  painted  at  good  prices,  especially 
if  it  was  in  accordance  with  some  one  else's  tastes  and 
contrary  to  his  artistic  desire;  he  enjoyed  a  calm  exist- 
ence, full  of  comforts ;  in  his  studio,  almost  as  splendid 
as  a  palace,  the  fagade  of  which  was  reproduced  in  the 
illustrated  magazines,  he  had  a  wife  who  was  convinced 
of  his  genius  and  a  daughter  who  was  almost  a  woman 
and  who  made  the  troop  of  his  intimate  pupils  stammer 
with  embarrassment.  The  only  evidences  of  his  Bohe- 
mian past  that  remained  were  his  soft  felt  hats,  his  long 
beard,  his  tangled  hair  and  a  certain  carelessness  in  his 
dress;  but  when  his  position  as  a  "national  celebrity" 
demanded  it,  he  took  out  of  his  wardrobe  a  dress  suit 
with  the  lapel  covered  with  the  insignia  of  honorary 
orders  and  played  his  part  in  official  receptions.  He  had 
thousands  of  dollars  in  the  bank.  In  his  studio,  palette 
in  hand,  he  conferred  with  his  broker,  discussing  what 
sort  of  investments  he  ought  to  make  with  the  year's 
profits.  His  name  awakened  no  surprise  or  aversion  in 
high  society,  where  it  was  fashionable  for  ladies  to  have 
their  portraits  painted  by  him. 

In  the  early  days  he  had  provoked  scandal  and  pro- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  21 

tests  by  his  boldness  in  color  and  his  revolutionary  way 
of  seeing  Nature,  but  there  was  not  connected  with  his 
name  the  least  offence  against  the  conventions  of  society. 
His  women  were  women  of  the  people,  picturesque  and 
repugnant ;  the  only  flesh  that  he  had  shown  on  his  can- 
vases was  that  of  a  sweaty  laborer  or  the  chubby  child. 
He  was  an  honored  master,  who  cultivated  his  stupen- 
dous ability  with  the  same  calm  that  he  showed  in  his 
business  affairs. 

What  was  lacking  in  his  life?  Ah!  Renovales  smiled 
ironically.  His  whole  life  suddenly  came  to  mind  in  a 
tumultuous  rush  of  memories.  Once  more  he  fixed  his 
glance  on  that  woman,  shining  white  like  a  pearl  amphora, 
with  her  arms  above  her  head,  her  breasts  erect  and  tri- 
umphant, her  eyes  resting  on  him,  as  if  she  had  known 
him  for  many  years,  and  he  repeated  mentally  with  an 
expression  of  bitterness  and  dejection: 

"Goya's  Maja,  the  Maja  Desnuda!" 


II 


As  Mariano  Renovales  recalled  the  first  years  of  his 
life,  his  memory,  always  sensitive  to  exterior  impres- 
sions, called  up  the  ceaseless  clang  of  hammers.  From 
the  rising  of  the  sun  till  the  earth  began  to  darken  with 
the  shadows  of  twilight  the  iron  sang  or  groaned  on  the 
anvil,  jarring  the  walls  of  the  house  and  the  floor  of  the 
garret,  where  Mariano  used  to  play,  lying  on  the  floor 
at  the  feet  of  a  pale,  sickly  woman  with  serious,  deep-set 
eyes,  who  frequently  dropped  her  sewing  to  kiss  the  little 
one  with  sudden  violence,  as  though  she  feared  she  would 
not  see  him  again. 

Those  tireless  hammers  that  had  accompanied  Mari- 
ano's birth,  made  him  jump  out  of  bed  as  soon  as  day 
broke  and  go  down  to  the  shop  to  warm  himself  beside 
the  glowing  forge.  His  father,  a  good-natured  Cyclops 
— hairy  and  blackened — walked  back  and  forth,  turning 
over  the  irons,  picking  up  files,  giving  orders  to  his  as- 
sistants with  loud  shouts,  in  order  to  be  heard  in  the  din 
of  the  hammering.  Two  sturdy  fellows,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  swung  their  arms,  panting  over  the  anvil,  and  the 
iron — now  red,  now  golden — leaped  in  bright  showers, 
scattered  in  crackling  sprays,  peopling  the  black  atmos- 
phere of  the  shop  with  a  swarm  of  fiery  flies  that  died 
av/ay  in  the  soot  of  the  corners. 

"Take  care,  little  one !"  said  the  father,  protecting  his 
delicate  curly-haired  head  with  one  of  his  great  hands. 

The  little  fellow  felt  attracted  by  the  colors  of  the 
glowing  iron,  till  with  the  thoughtlessness  of  childhood 

22 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  25 

he  sometimes  tried  to  pick  up  the  fragments  that  glowed 
on  the  ground  like  fallen  stars. 

His  father  would  push  him  out  of  the  shop,  and  out- 
side the  door — black  with  soot — Mariano  could  see 
stretching  out  below  him  in  the  flood  of  sunlight  the  fields 
with  their  red  soil  cut  into  geometric  figures  by  stone 
walls ;  at  the  bottom  the  valley  with  groups  of  poplars 
bordering  the  winding,  crystal  stream,  and  before  him 
the  mountains,  covered  to  the  very  tops  with  dark  pine 
woods.  The  shop  was  in  the  suburbs  of  a  town  and  from 
it  and  the  villages  of  the  valley  came  the  jobs  that  sup- 
ported the  blacksmith — new  axles  for  carts,  plowshares, 
scythes,  shovels,  and  pitchforks  in  need  of  repair. 

The  incessant  poundmg  of  the  hammers  seemed  to  stir 
up  the  little  fellow,  inspiring  him  with  a  fever  of  activity, 
tearing  him  from  his  childish  amusements.  When  he 
was  eight  years  old,  he  used  to  seize  the  rope  of  the  bel- 
lows and  pull  it,  delighting  in  the  shower  of  sparks  that 
the  current  of  air  drove  out  of  the  lighted  coals.  The 
Cyclops  was  gratified  at  the  strength  of  his  son,  robust 
and  vigorous  like  all  the  men  of  his  family,  with  a  pair  of 
fists  that  inspired  a  wholesome  respect  in  all  the  village 
lads.  He  was  one  of  his  own  blood.  From  his  poor 
mother,  weak  and  sickly,  he  inherited  only  his  propensity 
toward  silence  and  isolation  that  sometimes,  when  the 
fever  of  activity  died  out  in  him,  kept  him  for  hours  at 
a  time  watching  the  fields,  the  sky  or  the  brooks  that 
came  tumbling  down  over  the  pebbles  to  join  the  stream 
at  the  bottom  of  the  valley. 

The  boy  hated  school,  showing  a  holy  horror  of  let- 
ters. His  strong  hands  shook  with  uncertainty  when  he 
tried  to  write  a  word.  On  the  other  hand,  his  father 
and  the  other  people  in  the  shop  admired  the  ease  with 
which  he  could  reproduce  objects  in  a  simple,  ingenuous 
drawing,  in  which  no  detail  of  naturalness  was  lacking. 


24-  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

His  pockets  were  always  full  of  bits  of  charcoal  and  he 
never  saw  a  wall  or  stone  that  had  a  suggestion  of 
whiteness,  without  at  once  tracing  on  it  a  copy  of  the 
objects  that  struck  his  eyes  because  of  some  marked  pecu- 
liarity. The  outside  walls  of  the  shop  were  black  with 
little  Mariano's  drawings.  Along  the  walls  ran  the  pigs 
of  Saint  Anthony,  with  their  puckered  snouts  and  twisted 
tails,  that  wandered  through  the  village  and  were  sup- 
ported by  public  charity,  to  be  raffled  on  the  festival  of 
the  saint.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  stout  procession  stood 
cut  the  profiles  of  the  blacksmith  and  all  the  workmen 
of  the  shop,  with  an  inscription  beneath,  that  no  doubt 
might  arise  as  to  their  identity. 

"Come  here,  woman,"  the  blacksmith  would  shout  to 
his  sick  wife  when  he  discovered  a  new  sketch.  ''Come 
and  see  what  our  son  has  done.  A  devil  of  a  boy!" 

And  influenced  by  this  enthusiasm,  he  no  longer  com- 
plained when  Mariano  ran  away  from  school  and  the 
bellows  rope  to  spend  the  whole  day  running-  through 
the  valley  or  the  village,  a  piece  of  charcoal  in  his  hand, 
covering  the  rocks  of  the  mountain  and  the  house  walls 
with  black  lines,  to  the  despair  of  the  neighbors.  In  the 
tavern  in  the  Plaza  Mayor  he  had  traced  the  heads  of 
the  most  constant  customers,  and  the  innkeeper  pointed 
them  out  proudly,  forbidding  anyone  to  touch  the  wall 
for  fear  the  sketches  would  disappear.  This  work  was 
a  source  of  vanity  to  the  blacksmith  when  .Sundays, 
after  mass,  he  went  in  to  dil.'k  a  glass  with  his  friends. 
On  the  wall  of  the  rectory  ht  nad  traced  a  Virgin,  before 
which  the  most  pious  old  women  in  the  village  stopped 
with  deep  sighs. 

The  blacksmith  with  a  flush  of  satisfaction  accepted 
all  the  praises  that  were  showered  on  the  little  fellow  as 
if  they  belonged  in  large  part  to  himself.  Where  had 
that  prodigy  come  from,  when  all  the  rest  of  his  family 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  25 

were  such  brutes?  And  he  nodded  affirmatively  when 
the  village  notables  spoke  of  doing  something  for  the  boy. 
To  be  sure,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do,  but  they  were 
right ;  his  Mariano  was  not  destined  to  hammer  iron  like 
his  father.  He  might  become  as  great  a  personage  as 
Don  Rafael,  a  gentleman  who  painted  saints  in  the  capi- 
tal of  the  province  and  was  a  teacher  of  painting  in  a 
big  house,  full  of  pictures,  in  the  city.  During  the  sum- 
mer he  came  with  his  family  to  live  in  an  estate  in  the 
valley. 

This  Don  Rafael  was  a  man  of  imposing  gravity;  a 
saint  with  a  large  family  of  children,  who  wore  a  frock- 
coat  as  if  it  were  a  cassock  and  spoke  with  the  suavity 
of  a  friar  through  his  white  beard  that  covered  his  thin,' 
pink  cheeks.  In  the  village  church  they  had  a  wonderful 
picture  painted  by  him,  a  Purisima,  whose  soft  glowing 
colors  made  the  legs  of  the  pious  tremble.  Besides,  the 
eyes  of  the  image  had  the  marvelous  peculiarity  of  look- 
ing straight  at  those  who  contemplated  it,  following  them 
even  though  they  changed  position.  A  veritable  miracle. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  that  good  gentleman  who  came 
up  every  morning  in  the  summer  to  hear  mass  in  the  vil- 
lage, had  painted  that  supernatural  work.  An  English- 
man had  tried  to  buy  it  for  its  weight  in  gold.  No  one 
had  seen  the  Englishman,  but  every  one  smiled  sarcas- 
tically when  they  commented  on  the  offer.  Yes,  indeed, 
they  were  likely  to  let  the  picture  go !  Let  the  heretics 
rage  with  all  their  millions.  The  Purisima  would  stay  in 
her  chapel  to  the  envy  of  the  whole  wrorld — and  es- 
pecially of  the  neighboring  villages. 

When  the  parish  priest  went  to  visit  Don  Rafael  to 
speak  to  him  about  the  blacksmith's  son,  the  great  man 
already  knew  about  his  ability.  He  had  seen  his  draw- 
ings in  the  village;  the  boy  had  some  talent  and  it  was 
a  pity  not  to  guide  him  in  the  right  path.  After  this 


26  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

came  the  visits  of  the  blacksmith  and  his  son,  both  trem- 
bling when  they  found  themselves  in  the  attic  of  the 
country  house  that  the  great  painter  had  converted  into 
a  studio,  seeing  close  at  hand  the  pots  of  color,  the  oily 
palette,  the  brushes  and  those  pale  blue  canvases  on 
which  the  rosy,  chubby  cheeks  of  the  cherubim  or  the 
ecstatic  face  of  the  Mother  of  God  were  beginning  to 
assume  form. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer  the  good  blacksmith  de- 
cided to  follow  Don  Rafael's  advice.  As  long  as  he  was 
so  good  as  to  consent  to  helping  the  boy,  he  was  not 
going  to  be  the  one  to  interfere  with  his  good  fortune. 
The  shop  gave  him  enough  to  live  on.  All  it  meant  was 
to  work  a  few  years  longer,  to  support  himself  till  the 
end  of  his  life  beside  the  anvil,  without  an  assistant  or 
a  successor.  His  son  was  born  to  be  somebody,  and  it 
was  a  serious  sin  to  stop  his  progress  by  scorning  the 
help  of  his  good  protector. 

His  mother,  who  constantly  grew  weaker  and  more 
sickly,  cried  as  if  the  journey  to  the  capital  of  the  prov- 
ince were  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

"Good-by,  my  boy.    I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

And  in  truth  it  was  the  last  time  that  Mariano  saw 
that  pale  face  with  its  great  expressionless  eyes,  now 
almost  wiped  out  of  his  memory  like  a  whitish  spot  in 
which,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  he  could  not  succeed  in 
restoring  the  outline  of  the  features. 

In  the  city  his  life  was  radically  different.  Then  for 
the  first  time  he  understood  what  it  was  his  hands  were 
striving  for  as  they  moved  the  charcoal  over  the  white- 
washed walls.  Art  was  revealed  to  his  eyes  in  those 
silent  afternoons,  passed  in  the. convent  where  the  provin- 
cial museum  was  situated,  while  his  master,  Don  Rafael, 
argued  with  other  gentlemen  in  the  professor's  hall,  or 
signed  papers  in  the  secretary's  office. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  27 

Mariano  lived  at  his  protector's  house,  at  once  his 
servant  and  his  pupil.  He  carried  letters  to  the  dean  and 
the  other  canons,  who  were  friends  of  his  master  and 
who  accompanied  him  on  his  walks  or  spent  social  eve- 
nings in  his  studio.  More  than  once  he  visited  the  locu- 
tories  of  nunneries,  to  deliver  through  the  heavy  gratings 
presents  from  Don  Rafael  to  certain  black  and  white 
shadows,  which  attracted  by  this  sturdy  young  country 
boy,  and  aware  that  he  meant  to  be  a  painter,  over- 
whelmed him  with  the  eager  questions  born  of  their 
seclusion.  Before  he  went  away  they  would  hand  him, 
through  the  revolving  window,  cakes  and  candied  lemons 
or  some  other  goody,  and  then,  with  a  word  of  advice, 
would  say  good-by  in  their  thin,  soft  voices,  which  sifted 
through  the  iron  of  the  gratings. 

"Be  a  good  boy,  little  Mariano.  Study,  pray.  Be  a 
good  Christian,  the  Lord  will  protect  you  and  perhaps 
you  will  get  to  be  as  great  a  painter  as  Don  Rafael,  who 
is  one  of  the  first  in  the  world." 

How  the  master  laughed  at  the  memory  of  the  childish 
simplicity  that  made  him  see  in  his  master  the  most  mar- 
velous painter  on  earth !  .  .  .  Mornings,  when  he  at- 
tended the  classes  in  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  he  grew 
angry  at  his  comrades,  a  disrespectful  rabble,  brought  up 
in  the  streets,  sons  of  mechanics,  who,  as  soon  as  the 
professor  turned  his  back,  pelted  each  other  with  the 
crumbs  of  bread  meant  to  wipe  out  their  drawings,  and 
cursed  Don  Rafael,  calling  him  a  "Christer"  and  a 
"Jesuit." 

The  afternoon  Mariano  passed  in  the  studio,  at  his 
master's  side.  How  excited  he  was  the  first  time  he 
placed  a  palette  in  his  hand  and  allowed  him  to  copy  on 
an  old  canvas  a  child  St.  John  which  he  had  finished  for 
a  society !  .  .  .  While  the  boy  with  his  forehead  wrinkled 
in  his  eagerness,  tried  to  imitate  his  master's  work,  he 


28  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

listened  to  the  good  advice  that  the  master  gave 
without  looking  up  from  the  canvas  over  which  his  an- 
gelic brush  was  running. 

Painting  must  be  religious;  the  first  pictures  in  the 
world  had  been  inspired  by  religion;  outside  of  it,  life 
offered  nothing  but  base  materialism,  loathsome  sins. 
Painting  must  be  ideal,  beautiful.  It  must  always  repre- 
sent pretty  subjects,  reproduce  things  as  they  ought  to 
be,  not  as  they  really  are,  and  above  all,  look  up  to 
heaven,  since  there  is  true  life,  not  on  this  earth,  a  valley 
of  tears.  Mariano  must  modify  his  instincts — that  was 
his  master's  advice — must  lose  his  fondness  for  draw- 
ing coarse  subjects — people  as  he  saw  them,  animals  in 
all  their  material  brutality,  landscapes  in  the  same  form 
as  his  eyes  gazed  upon. 

He  must  have  idealism.  Many  painters  were  almost 
saints ;  only  thus  could  they  reflect  celestial  beauty  in  the 
faces  of  their  madonnas.  And  poor  Mariano  strove  to 
be  ideal,  to  catch  a  little  of  that  beatific  serenity  which 
surrounded  his  master. 

Little  by  little  he  came  to  understand  the  methods 
which  Don  Rafael  employed  to  create  these  masterpieces 
which  called  forth  cries  of  admiration  from  his  circle  of 
canons  and  the  rich  ladies  that  gave  him  commissions 
for  pictures.  When  he  intended  to  begin  one  of  his 
Purisimas,  which  were  slowly  invading  the  churches  and 
convents  of  the  province,  he  arose  early  and  returned  to 
his  studio  after  mass  and  communion.  In  this  way  he 
felt  an  inner  strength,  a  calm  enthusiasm,  and,  if  he  felt 
depressed  in  the  midst  of  the  work,  he  once  more  had 
recourse  to  this  inspiring  medicine. 

The  artist,  besides,  must  be  pure.  He  had  taken  a  vow 
of  chastity  after  he  had  reached  the  age  of  fifty,  some- 
what late  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  not  because  he  had  not 
known  before  this  certain  means  of  reaching  the  per- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  29 

feet  idealism  of  a  celestial  painter.  His  wife,  who  had 
grown  old  in  her  countless  confinements,  exhausted  by 
the  tiresome  fidelity  and  virtue  of  the  master,  was  no 
longer  anything  but  the  companion  who  gave  the  re- 
sponses when  he  prayed  his  rosaries  and  Trisagia  at 
night.  He  had  several  daughters,  who  weighed  on  his 
conscience  like  the  reproachful  memory  of  a  disgraceful 
materialism,  but  some  were  already  nuns  and  the  others 
were  on  the  way,  while  the  idealism  of  the  artist  in- 
creased as  these  evidences  of  his  impurity  disappeared 
from  the  house  and  went  to  hide  away  in  a  convent  where 
they  upheld  the  artistic  prestige  of  their  father. 

Sometimes  the  great  painter  hesitated  before  a 
Purisima,  which  was  always  the  same,  as  if  he  painted  it 
with  a  stencil.  Then  he  spoke  mysteriously  to  his  dis- 
ciple : 

"Mariano,  tell  the  gentlemen  not  to  come  to-morrow. 
We  have  a  model." 

And  when  the  studio  was  closed  to  the  priests  and 
the  other  respectable  friends,  with  heavy  step  in  came 
Rodriguez,  a  policeman,  with  a  cigarette  stub  under  his 
heavy  bristling  mustache  and  one  hand  on  the  handle  of 
his  sword.  Dismissed  from  the  gendarmerie  for  intoxi- 
cation and  cruelty,  and  finding  himself  without  employ- 
ment, by  some  strange  chance  he  began  to  devote  himself 
to  serving  as  a  painter's  model.  The  pious  artist,  who 
held  him  in  a  sort  of  terror,  nagged  by  his  constant  pe- 
titions, had  secured  for  him  this  position  as  policeman, 
and  Rodriguez  took  advantage  of  every  opportunity  to 
show  his  rough  appreciation,  slapping  the  master's  shoul- 
ders with  his  great  hands  and  blowing  in  his  face,  his 
breath  redolent  with  nicotine  and  alcohol. 

"Don  Rafael,  you  are  my  father.  If  anybody  touches 
you,  I'll  fix  him,  whoever  he  is." 

And  the  ascetic  artist,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  at 


SO  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

this  protection,  blushed  and  waved  his  hands  in  protest 
against  the  frankness  of  the  rude  fellow  with  his  threats 
for  the  men  he  would  "fix." 

He  threw  his  helmet  on  the  ground,  handed  his  heavy 
sword  to  Mariano,  and  like  a  man  that  knows  his  duty, 
took  out  of  the  bottom  of  a  chest  a  white  woolen  tunic 
and  a  piece  of  blue  cloth  like  a  cloak,  placing  both  gar- 
ments on  his  body  with  the  skill  of  practice. 

Mariano  looked  at  him  with  astonished  eyes  but  with- 
out any  temptation  to  laugh.  They  were  mysteries  of  art, 
surprises  that  were  reserved  only  for  those  who,  like 
him,  had  the  good  fortune  to  live  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  the  great  master. 

"Ready,   Rodriguez?"  Don  Rafael  asked  impatiently. 

And  Rodriguez,  erect  in  his  bath  robe  with  the  blue 
rag  hanging  from  his  shoulders,  clasped  his  hands  and 
lifted  his  fierce  gaze  to  the  ceiling,  without  ceasing  to 
suck  the  stub  that  singed  his  mustache.  The  master  did 
not  need  the  model  except  for  the  robes  of  the  figure,  to 
study  the  folds  of  the  celestial  garment,  which  must  not 
reveal  the  slightest  evidence  of  human  contour.  The  pos- 
sibility of  copying  a  woman  had  never  passed  through  his 
imagination.  That  was  falling  into  materialism,  glorify- 
ing the  flesh,  inviting  temptation;  Rodriguez  was  all  he 
needed ;  one  must  be  an  idealist. 

The  model  continued  in  his  mystic  attitude  with  his 
body  lost  in  the  innumerable  folds  of  his  blue  and  white 
raiment,  while  under  it  the  square  toes  of  his  army  boots 
stuck  out,  and  he  held  up  his  grotesque,  flat  head,  crowned 
with  bristling  hair,  coughing  and  choking  from  the  smoke 
of  the  cigar,  without  ceasing  to  look  up  and  without  sepa- 
rating his  hands  clasped  in  an  attitude  of  worship. 

Sometimes,  tired  out  by  the  industrious  silence  of  the 
master  and  the  pupil,  Rodriguez  uttered  a  few  grumbles 
that  little  by  little  took  the  form  of  words  and  finally  de- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  31 

veloped  into  the  story  of  the  deeds  of  his  heroic  period, 
when  he  was  a  rural  policeman  and  "could  take  a  shot 
at  anyone  and  pay  for  it  afterward  with  a  report." 
The  Purisima  grew  excited  at  these  memories.  His 
hands  separated  with  a  tremble  of  murderous  joy,  the 
carefully  arranged  folds  were  disturbed,  his  bloodshot 
eyes  no  longer  looked  heavenward,  and  with  a  hoarse 
voice  he  told  of  tremendous  beatings  he  administered,  of 
men  who  fell  to  the  ground  writhing  with  pain,  the  shoot- 
ing of  prisoners  which  afterwards  were  reported  as  at- 
tempts to  escape ;  and  to  give  greater  relief  to  this  auto- 
biography which  he  declaimed  with  bestial  pride,  he 
sprinkled  his  words  with  interjections  as  vulgar  as  they 
were  lacking  in  respect  for  the  first  personages  of  the 
heavenly  court. 

"Rodriguez,  Rodriguez!"  exclaimed  the  master,  hor- 
ror-stricken. 

"At  your  command,  Don  Rafael." 

And  the  Purisima,  after  passing  the  stub  from  one  side 
of  his  mouth  to  the  other,  once  more  folded  his  hands, 
straightened  up,  showing  his  red-striped  trousers  under 
the  tunic,  and  lost  his  gaze  on  high,  smiling  with  ecstasy, 
as  if  he  contemplated  on  the  ceiling  all  his  heroic  deeds 
of  which  he  felt  so  proud. 

Mariano  was  in  despair  before  his  canvas.  He  could 
never  imitate  his  illustrious  master.  He  was  incapable 
of  painting  anything  but  what  he  saw,  and  his  brush, 
after  reproducing  the  blue  and  white  raiment,  stopped, 
hesitating  at  the  face,  calling  in  vain  on  imagination. 
After  futile  efforts  it  was  the  grotesque  mask  of  Rodri- 
guez that  appeared  on  the  canvas. 

And  the  pupil  had  a  sincere  admiration  for  the  ability 
of  Don  Rafael,  for  that  pale  head  veiled  in  the  light  of 
its  halo,  a  pretty,  expressionless  face  of  childish  beauty, 


32  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

which  took  the  place  of  the  policeman's  fierce  head  in  the 
picture. 

This  sleight-of-hand  seemed  to  the  boy  the  most  as- 
tounding evidence  of  art.  When  would  he  reach  the  easy 
prestidigitation  of  his  master! 

With  time  the  difference  between  Don  Rafael  and  his 
pupil  became  more  marked.  At  school  his  comrades 
gathered  around  him,  recognizing  his  superiority  and 
praising  his  drawings.  Some  professors,  enemies  of  his 
master,  lamented  that  such  talent  should  be  lost  beside 
that  "saint-painter."  Don  Rafael  was  surprised  at  what 
Mariano  did  outside  of  his  studio — figures  and  land- 
scapes, directly  observed  which,  according  to  him, 
breathed  the  brutality  of  life. 

His  Ci/:le  of  serious  gentlemen  began  to  discover  some 
merit  in  the  pupil. 

"He  will  never  reach  your  height,  Don  Rafael,"  they 
said.  "He  lacks  unction,  he  has  no  idealism,  he  will 
never  paint  a  good  Virgin — but  as  a  worldly  painter  he 
has  a  future." 

The  master,  who  loved  the  boy  for  his  submissive 
nature  and  the  purity  of  his  habits,  tried  in  vain  to  make 
him  follow  the  right  way.  If  he  would  only  imitate  him, 
his  fortune  was  made.  He  would  die  without  a  succes- 
sor and  his  studio  and  his  fame  would  be  his.  The  boy 
only  had  to  see  how,  little  by  little,  like  a  good  ant  of 
the  Lord,  the  master  had  gathered  together  a  fair  sized 
future  with  his  brush.  By  virtue  of  his  idealism,  he  had 
his  country  house  there  in  the  village,  and  no  end  of 
estates,  the  tenants  of  which  came  and  visited  him  in 
his  studio,  carrying  on  endless  discussions  over  the  pay- 
ment and  amount  of  the  rents  in  front  of  the  poetic 
Virgins.  The  Church  was  poor  because  of  the  impiety 
of  the  times,  it  could  not  pay  as  generously  as  in  other 
centuries,  but  commissions  were  numerous,  and  a  Virgin 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  33 


in  all  her  purity  was  a  matter  of  only  three  days — but 
young  Renovales  made  a  troubled,  wry  face,  as  if  a 
painful  sacrifice  were  demanded  of  him. 

"I  can't,  Master.  I'm  an  idiot.  I  don't  know  how  to 
invent  things.  I  paint  only  what  I  see/' 

And  when  he  began  to  see  naked  bodies  in  the  so- 
called  "life"  class  he  devoted  himself  zealously  to  this 
study,  as  if  the  flesh  caused  in  him  the  most  violent  in- 
toxication. Don  Rafael  was  appalled  by  finding  in  the 
corners  of  his  house  sketches  that  portrayed  shameful 
nudes  in  all  their  reality.  Besides,  the  progress  of  his 
pupil  caused  him  some  uneasiness ;  he  saw  in  his  painting 
a  vigor  that  he  himself  had  never  had.  He  even  noted 
some  falling-off  in  his  circle  of  admirers.  The  good 
canons,  as  always,  admired  his  Virgins,  but  some  of  them 
had  their  portraits  painted  by  Mariano,  praising  the  skill 
of  his  brush. 

One  day  he  said  to  his  pupil,  firmly : 

"You  know  that  I  love  you  as  I  would  a  son,  Mariano, 
but  you  are  wasting  your  time  with  me.  I  cannot  teach 
you  anything.  Your  place  is  somewhere  else.  I  thought 
you  might  go  to  Madrid.  There  you  will  find  men  of 
your  stamp." 

His  mother  was  dead ;  his  father  was  still  in  the  black- 
smith shop,  and  when  he  saw  him  come  home  with  sev- 
eral duros,  the  pay  for  portraits  he  had  made,  he  looked 
on  this  sum  as  a  fortune.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that 
anyone  would  give  money  in  exchange  for  colors.  A 
letter  from  Don  Rafael  convinced  him.  Since  that  wise 
gentleman  advised  that  his  son  should  go  to  Madrid,  he 
must  agree. 

"Go  to  Madrid,  my  boy,  and  try  to  make  money  soon, 
for  your  father  is  old  and  will  not  always  be  able  to 
help  you." 

At  the  age  of  sixteen,  Renovales  landed  in  Madrid 


34,  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

and  finding  himself  alone,  with  only  his  wishes  for  his 
guide,  devoted  himself  zealously  to  his  work.  He  spent 
the  morning  in  the  Museo  del  Prado,  copying  all  the 
heads  in  Velasquez's  pictures.  He  felt  that  till  then  he 
had  been  blind.  Besides,  he  worked  in  an  attic  studio 
with  some  other  companions  and  evenings  painted  water- 
colors.  By  selling  these  and  some  copies,  he  managed  to 
eke  out  the  small  allowance  his  father  sent  him. 

He  recalled  with  a  sort  of  homesickness  those  years  of 
poverty,  of  real  misery,  the  cold  nights  in  his  wretched 
bed,  the  irritating  meals — Heaven  knows  what  was  in 
them — eaten  in  a  bar-room  near  the  Teatro  Real ;  the  dis- 
cussions in  the  corner  of  a  cafe,  under  the  hostile  glances 
of  the  waiters  who  were  provoked  that  a  dozen  long- 
haired youths  should  occupy  several  tables  and  order  all 
together  only  three  coffees  and  many  bottles  of  water. 

The  light-hearted  young  fellows  stood  their  misery 
without  difficulty  and,  to  make  up  for  it,  what  a  fill  of 
fancies  they  had,  what  a  glorious  feast  of  hopes!  A 
new  discovery  every  day.  Renovales  ran  through  the 
realm  of  art  like  a  wild  colt,  seeing  new  horizons  spread- 
ing out  before  him,  and  his  career  caused  an  outburst  of 
scandal  that  amounted  to  premature  celebrity.  The  old 
men  said  that  he  was  the  only  boy  who  "had  the  stuff 
in  him" ;  his  comrades  declared  that  he  was  a  "real 
painter,"  and  in  their  iconoclastic  enthusiasm  compared 
his  inexperienced  works  with  those  of  the  recognized 
old  masters — ''poor  humdrum  artists"  on  whose  bald 
pates  they  felt  obliged  to  vent  their  spleen  in  order  to 
show  the  superiority  of  the  younger  generation. 

Renovales'  candidacy  for  the  fellowship  at  Rome 
caused  a  veritable  revolution.  The  younger  set,  who 
swore  by  him  and  considered  him  their  illustrious  cap- 
tain, broke  out  in  threats,  fearful  lest  the  "old  boys" 
should  sacrifice  their  idol. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  35 

When  at  last  his  manifest  superiority  won  him  the  fel- 
lowship, there  were  banquets  in  his  honor,  articles  in  the 
papers,  his  picture  was  published  in  the  illustrated  maga- 
zines, and  even  the  old  blacksmith  made  a  trip  to  Madrid, 
to  breathe  with  tearful  emotion  part  of  the  incense  that 
was  burned  for  his  son. 

In  Rome  a  cruel  disappointment  awaited  Renovales. 
His  countrymen  received  him  rather  coldly.  The  younger 
men  looked  on  him  as  a  rival  and  waited  for  his  next 
works  with  the  hope  of  a  failure ;  the  old  men  who  lived 
far  from  their  fatherland  examined  him  with  malignant 
curiosity.  "And  so  that  big  chap  was  the  blacksmith's 
son,  who  caused  so  much  disturbance  among  the  ignorant 
people  at  home!  .  .  .  Madrid  was  not  Rome.  They 
would  soon  see  what  that  genius  could  do !" 

Renovales  did  nothing  in  the  first  months  of  his  stay 
in  Rome.  lie  answered  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders 
those  who  asked  for  his  pictures  with  evident  innuendo. 
He  had  come  there  not  to  paint  but  to  study;  that  was 
what  the  State  was  paying  him  for.  And  he  spent  more 
than  half  a  year  drawing,  always  drawing  in  the  famous 
art  galleries,  where,  pencil  in  hand,  he  studied  the 
famous  works.  The  paint  boxes  remained  unopened  in 
one  corner  of  the  studio. 

Before  long  he  came  to  detest  the  great  city,  because 
of  the  life  the  artists  led  in  it.  What  was  the  use  of  fel- 
lowships ?  People  studied  less  there  than  in  other  places. 
Rome  was  not  a  school,  it  was  a  market.  The  painting 
merchants  set  up  their  business  there,  attracted  by  the 
gathering  of  artists.  All — old  and  beginners,  famous 
and  unknown — felt  the  temptation  of  money;  all  were 
seduced  by  the  easy  comforts  of  life,  producing  works 
for  sale,  painting  pictures  in  accordance  with  the  sugges- 
tions of  some  German  Jews  who  frequented  the  studios, 


36  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

designating  the  sizes  and  the  types  that  were  in  style  in 
order  to  spread  them  over  Europe  and  America. 

When  Renovales  visited  the  studios,  he  saw  nothing 
but  genre  pictures,  sometimes  gentlemen  in  long  dress 
coats,  others  tattered  Moors  or  Calabrian  peasants. 
They  were  pretty,  faultless  paintings,  for  which  they 
used  as  models  a  manikin,  or  the  families  of  ciociari 
whom  they  hired  every  morning  in  the  Piazza  di  Espagna 
beside  the  Sealinata  of  the  Trinity ;  the  everlasting  coun- 
try-woman, swarthy  and  black-eyed,  with  great  hoops 
in  her  ears  and  wearing  a  green  skirt,  a  black  waist  and 
a  white  head-dress  caught  up  on  her  hair  with  large  pins ; 
the  usual  old  man  with  sandals,  a  'woolen  cloak  and  a 
pointed  hat  with  spiral  bands  on  his  snowy  head  that 
was  a  fitting  model  for  the  Eternal  Father.  The  artists 
judged  each  other's  ability  by  the  number  of  thousand 
lire  they  took  in  during  a  year ;  they  spoke  with  respect 
of  the  famous  masters  who  made  a  fortune  out  of  the 
millionaires  of  Paris  and  Chicago  for  easel-pictures  that 
nobody  saw.  Renovales  was  indignant.  This  sort  of  art 
was  almost  like  that  of  his  first  master,  even  if  it  was 
"worldly"  as  Don  Rafael  had  said.  And  that  was  what 
they  sent  him  to  Rome  for ! 

Unpopular  with  his  countrymen  because  of  his  brusque 
ways,  his  rude  tongue  and  his  honesty,  which  made  him. 
refuse  all  commissions  from  the  art  merchants,  he  sought 
the  society  of  artists  from  other  countries.  Among  the 
cosmopolitan  group  of  young  painters  who  were  quar- 
tered in  Rome,  Renovales  soon  became  popular. 

His  energy,  his  exuberant  spirits,  made  him  a  con- 
genial, merry  comrade,  when  he  appeared  in  the  studios 
of  the  Via  di  Babuino  or  in  the  cholocate  rooms  and  cafes 
of  the  Corso,  where  the  artists  of  different  nationalities 
gathered  in  friendly  company.' 

Mariano,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  was  an  athletic  fellow, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  37 

a  worthy  scion  of  the  man  who  was  pounding  iron  from, 
morning  till  night  in  a  far  away  corner  of  Spain.  One 
day  an  English  youth,  a  friend  of  his,  read  him  a  page  of 
Ruskin  in  his  honor.  "The  plastic  arts  are  essentially 
athletic."  An  invalid,  a  half  paralyzed  man,  might  be  a 
great  poet,  a  celebrated  musician,  but  to  be  a  Michael 
Angelo  or  a  Titian  a  man  must  have  not  merely  a  privi- 
leged soul,  but  a  vigorous  body.  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
broke  a  horseshoe  in  his  hands;  the  sculptors  of  the 
Renaissance  worked  huge  blocks  of  marble  with  their 
titanic  arms  or  chipped  off  the  bronze  with  their  gravers ; 
the  great  painters  were  often  architects  and,  covered  with 
dust,  moved  huge  masses.  Renovales  listened  thought- 
fully to  the  words  of  the  great  English  sestheticist.  He, 
too,  was  a  strong  soul  in  an  athlete's  body. 

The  appetites  of  his  youth  never  went  beyond  the 
manly  intoxications  of  strength  and  movement.  At- 
tracted by  the  abundance  of  models  which  Rome  offered, 
he  often  undressed  a  ciociara  in  his  studio,  delighting  in 
drawing  the  forms  of  her  body.  He  laughed,  like  the 
big  giant  that  he  was,  he  spoke  to  her  with  the  same  free- 
dom as  if  she  were  one  of  the  poor  women  that  came 
out  to  stop  him  at  night  as  he  returned  alone  to  the 
Academy  of  Spain,  but  when  the  work  was  over  and 
she  was  dressed — out  with  her !  He  had  the  chastity  of 
.strong  men.  He  worshiped  the  flesh,  but  only  to  copy 
its  lines.  The  animal  contact,  the  chance  meeting,  with- 
out love,  without  attraction,  with  the  inner  reserve  of 
two  people  who  do  not  know  each  other  and  who  look  on 
each  other  with  suspicion,  filled  him  with  shame.  What 
he  wanted  to  do  was  to  study,  and  women  only  served  as 
|;a  hindrance  in  great  undertakings.  He  consumed  the 
surplus  of  his  energy  in  athletic  exercise.  After  one  of 
his  feats  of  strength,  which  filled  his  comrades  with  en- 
thusiasm, he  would  come  in  fresh,  serene,  indifferent,  as 


38  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

though  he  were  coming  out  of  a  bath.  He  fenced  with 
the  French' painters  of  the  Villa  Medici;  learned  to  box 
with  Englishmen  and  Americans;  organized,  with  some 
German  artists,  excursions  to  a  grove  near  Rome,  which 
were  talked  about  for  days  in  the  cafes  of  the  Corso. 
He  drank  countless  healths  with  his  companions  to  the 
Kaiser  whom  he  did  not  know  and  for  whom  he  did  not 
care  a  rap.  He  would  thunder  in  his  noisy  voice  the 
traditional  Gaudeainus  Igitur  and  finally  would  catch  two 
models  of  the  party  around  the  waist  and  with  his  arms 
stretched  out  like  a  cross  carry  them  through  the  woods 
till  he  dropped  them  on  the  grass  as  if  they  were  feathers. 
Afterwards  he  would  smile  with  satisfaction  at  the  ad- 
miration of  those  good  Germans,  many  of  them  sickly 
and  near-sighted,  who  compared  him  with  Siegfried  and 
the  other  muscular  heroes  of  their  warlike  mythology. 

In  the  Carnival  season,  when  the  Spaniards  organized 
a  cavalcade  of  the  Quixote,  he  undertook  to  represent  the 
knight  Pentapolin — "him  of  the  rolled-up  sleeves," — and 
in  the  Corso  there  were  applause  and  cries  of  admiration 
for  the  huge  biceps  that  the  knight-errant,  erect  on  his 
horse,  revealed.  When  the  spring  nights  came,  the 
artists  marched  in  a  procession  across  the  city  to  the 
Jewish  quarter  to  buy  the  first  artichokes — the  popular 
dish  in  Rome,  in  the  preparation  of  which  an  old  Hebrew 
woman  was  famous.  Renovales  went  at  the  head  of  the 
carciofalatta,  bearing  the  banner,  starting  the  songs 
which  were  alternated  with  the  cries  of  all  sorts  of  an- 
imals; and  his  comrades  marched  behind  him,  reckless 
and  insolent  under  the  protection  of  such  a  chieftain.  As 
long  as  Mariano  was  with  them  there  was  no  danger.; 
They  told  the  story  that  in  the  alleys  of  the  Trastevere 
he  had  given  a  deadly  beating  to  two  bullies  of  the  dis- 
trict, after  taking  away  their  stilettos. 

Suddenly  the  athlete  shut  himself  up  in  the  Academy 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  39 

and  did  not  come  down  to  the  city.  For  several  days 
they  talked  about  him  at  the  gatherings  of  artists.  He 
was  painting ;  an  exhibition  that  was  going  to  take  place 
in  Madrid  was  close  at  hand  and  he  wanted  to  take  to  it 
a  picture  to  justify  his  fellowship.  He  kept  the  door  of 
his  studio  closed  to  everyone,  he  did  not  permit  com- 
ment nor  advice,  the  canvas  would  appear  just  as  he 
conceived  it.  His  comrades  soon  forgot  him  and  Re- 
novales  ended  his  work  in  seclusion,  and  left  for  his 
country  with  it. 

It  was  a  complete  success,  the  first  important  step  on 
the  road  that  was  to  lead  him  to  fame.  Now  he  remem- 
bered with  shame,  with  remorse,  the  glorious  uproar  his 
picture  "The  Victory  of  Pavia"  stirred  up.  People 
crowded  in  front  of  the  huge  canvas,  forgetting  the  rest 
of  the  Exhibition.  And  as,  at  that  time,  the  Government 
was  strong,  the  Cortes  was  closed  and  there  was  no 
serious  accident  in  any  of  the  bull-rings,  the  newspapers, 
for  lack  of  any  more  lively  event,  hastened  in  cheap 
rivalry  to  reproduce  the  picture,  to  talk  about  it,  publish- 
ing portraits  of  the  author,  profiles,  as  well  as  front 
views,  large  and  small,  expatiating  on  his  life  in  Rome 
and  his  eccentricities,  and  recalled  with  tears  of  emotion 
the  poor  old  man  who  far  away  in  his  village  was  pound- 
ing iron,  hardly  knowing  of  his  son's  glory. 

With  one  bound  Renovales  passed  from  obscurity  to 
the  light  of  apotheosis.  The  older  men  whose  duty  it 
was  to  judge  his  work  became  benevolent  and  extended 
kindly  sympathy.  The  little  tiger  was  getting  tame. 
Renovales  had  seen  the  world  and  now  he  was  coming 
back  to  the  good  traditions ;  he  was  going  to  be  a  painter 
like  the  rest.  His  picture  had  portions  that  were  like 
Velasquez,  fragments  worthy  of  Goya,  corners  that  re- 
called El  Greco;  there  was  everything  in  it,  except  Re- 
novales, and  this  amalgam  of  reminiscences  was  its  chief 


40  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

merit,  what  attracted  general  applause  and  won  it  the 
first  medal. 

A  magnificent  debut  it  was.  A  dowager  duchess,  a 
great  protectress  of  the  arts,  who  never  bought  a  picture 
or  a  statue  but  who  entertained  at  her  table  painters  and 
sculptors  of  renown,  finding  in  this  an  inexpensive 
pleasure  and  a  certain  distinction  as  an  illustrious  lady, 
wished  to  make  Renovales'  acquaintance.  He  overcame 
the  stand-offishness  of  his  nature  that  kept  him  away 
from  all  social  relations.  Why  should  he  not  know  high 
society?  He  could  go  wherever  other  men  could.  And 
he  put  on  his  first  dress-coat,  and  after  the  banquets  of 
the  duchess,  where  his  way  of  arguing  with  members  of 
the  Academy  provoked  peals  of  merry  laughter,  he  visited 
other  salons  and  for  several  weeks  was  the  idol  of  society 
which,  to  be  sure,  was  somewhat  scandalized  by  his  faux 
fas,  but  still  pleased  with  the  timidity  that  overcame  him 
after  his  daring  sallies.  The  younger  set  liked  him  be- 
cause he  handled  a  sword  like  a  Saint  George.  Although 
a  painter  and  son  of  a  blacksmith,  he  was  in  every  way  a 
respectable  person.  The  ladies  flattered  him  with  their 
most  amiable  smiles,  hoping  that  the  fashionable  artist 
would  honor  them  with  a  portrait  gratis,  as  he  had  done 
with  the  duchess. 

In  this  period  of  high-life,  always  in  dress  clothes 
from  seven  in  the  evening,  without  painting  anything  but 
women  who  wanted  to  appear  pretty  and  discussed 
gravely  with  the  artist  which  gown  they  should  put  on 
to  serve  as  a  model,  Renovales  met  his  wife  Josephina. 

The  first  time  that  he  saw  her  among  so  many  ladies 
of  arrogant  bearing  and  striking  presence,  he  felt  at- 
tracted towards  her  by  force  of  contrast.  The  bashful- 
ness,  the  modesty,  the  insignificance  of  the  girl  impressed 
him.  She  was  small,  her  face  offered  no  other  beauty 
than  that  of  youth,  her  body  had  the  charm  of  delicacy. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  41 

Like  himself,  the  poor  girl  was  there  out  of  a  sort  of 
condescendence  on  the  part  of  the  others ;  she  seemed  to 
be  there  by  sufferance  and  she  shrank  in  it,  as  if  afraid 
of  attracting  attention.  Renovales  always  saw  her  in  the 
same  evening  gown  somewhat  old,  with  that  appearance 
of  weariness  which  a  garment  constantly  made  over  to 
follow  the  course  of  the  fashions  is  wont  to  acquire.  The 
gloves,  the  flowers,  the  ribbons  had  a  sort  of  sadness  in 
their  freshness,  as  if  they  betrayed  the  sacrifices,  the 
domestic  exertions  it  had  taken  to  procure  them.  She 
was  on  intimate  terms  with  all  the  girls  who  made  a  tri- 
umphal entrance  into  the  drawing-rooms,  inspiring  praise 
and  envy  with  their  new  toilettes;  her  mother,  a  majestic 
lady,  with  a  big  nose  and  gold  glasses,  treated  the  ladies 
of  the  noblest  families  with  familiarity;  but  in  spite  of 
this  intimacy  there  was  apparent  around  the  mother  and 
daughter  the  gap  of  somewhat  disdainful  affection,  in 
which  commiseration  bore  no  small  part.  They  were 
poor.  The  father  had  been  a  diplomat  of  some  distinc- 
tion who,  at  his  death,  left  his  wife  no  other  source  of 
income  than  the  widow's  pension.  Two  sons  were  abroad 
as  attaches  of  an  embassy,  struggling  with  the  scantiness 
of  their  salary  and  the  demands  of  their  position.  The 
mother  and  daughter  lived  in  Madrid,  chained  to  the 
society  in  which  they  were  born,  fearing  to  abandon  it, 
as  if  that  would  be  equivalent  to  a  degradation,  remain- 
ing during  the  day  in  a  fourth-floor  apartment,  furnished 
with  the  remnants  of  their  past  opulence,  making  un- 
heard-of sacrifices  in  order  to  be  able  in  the  evening  to 
rub  elbows  worthily  with  those  who  had  been  their  equals. 

Some  relative  of  Dona  Emilia,  the  mother,  contributed 
to  her  support,  not  with  money  (never  that!)  but  by 
loaning  her  the  surplus  of  their  luxury,  that  she  and  her 
daughter  might  maintain  a  pale  appearance  of  comfort. 

Some  of  them  loaned  them  their  carriage  on  certain 


42  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

days,  so  that  they  might  drive  through  the  Castellana  and 
the  Retiro,  bowing  to  their  friends  as  the  carriages 
passed ;  others  sent  them  their  box  at  the  Opera  on  eve- 
nings when  the  bill  was  not  a  brilliant  one.  Their  pity 
made  them  remember  them,  too,  when  they  sent  out  in- 
vitations to  birthday  dinners,  afternoon  teas,  and  the  like. 
"We  mustn't  forget  the  Torrealtas,  poor  things."  And 
the  next  day,  the  society  reporters  included  in  the  list 
of  those  present  at  the  function  "the  charming  Senorita 
de  Torrealta  and  her  distinguished  mother,  the  widow  of 
the  famous  diplomat  of  imperishable  memory,"  and  Dona 
Emilia,  forgetting  her  situation,  fancying  she  was  in  the 
good  old  times,  went  to  everything,  in  the  same  black 
gown,  annoying  with  her  "my  dears"  and  her  gossip  the 
great  ladies  whose  maids  were  richer  and  ate  better  than 
she  and  her  daughter.  If  some  old  gentleman  took  refuge 
beside  her,  the  diplomat's  wife  tried  to  overwhelm  him 
with  the  majesty  of  her  recollections.  "When  we  were 
ambassadors  in  Stockholm."  "When  my  friend  Eugenie 
was  empress.  .  .  ." 

The  daughter,  endowed  with  her  instinctive  girlish 
timidity,  seemed  better  to  realize  her  position.  She  would 
remain  seated  among  the  older  ladies,  only  rarely  ven- 
turing to  join  the  other  girls  who  had  been  her  boarding- 
school  companions  and  who  now  treated  her  condescend- 
ingly, looking  on  her  as  they  would  upon  a  governess 
who  had  been  raised  to  their  station,  out  of  remembrance 
for  the  past.  Her  mother  was  annoyed  at  her  timidity. 
She  ought  to  dance  a  lot,  be  lively  and  bold,  like  the 
other  girls,  crack  jokes,  even  if  they  were  doubtful,  that 
the  men  might  repeat  them  and  give  her  the  reputation 
of  being  a  wit.  It  was  incredible  that  with  the  bringing 
up  she  had  had,  she  should  be  so  insignificant.  The  idea ! 
The  daughter  of  a  great  man  about  whom  people  used 
to  crowd  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  first  salons  in  Europe ! 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  4,3 

A  girl  who  had  been  educated  at  the  school  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  in  Paris,  who  spoke  English,  a  little  German,  and 
spent  the  day  reading  when  she  did  not  have  to  clean  a 
pair  of  gloves  or  make  over  a  dress !  Didn't  she  want 
to  get  married?  Was  she  so  well  satisfied  with  that 
fourth-story  apartment,  that  wretched  cell  so  unworthy 
of  their  name  ? 

Josephina  smiled  sadly.  Get  married!  She  never 
would  get  to  that  in  the  society  they  frequented.  Every- 
one knew  they  were  poor.  The  young  men  thronged  the 
drawing-rooms  in  search  of  women  with  money.  If  by 
chance  one  of  them  did  come  up  to  her,  attracted  by  her 
pale  beauty,  it  was  only  to  whisper  to  her  shameful  sug- 
gestions while  they  danced;  to  propose  uncompromising 
engagements,  friendly  relations  with  a  prudence  modeled 
on  the  English,  flirtations  that  had  no  result. 

Renovales  did  not  realize  how  his  friendship  with 
Josephina  began.  Perhaps  it  was  the  contrast  between 
himself  and  the  little  woman  who  hardly  came  up  to  his 
shoulder  and  who  seemed  about  fifteen  when  she  was 
already  past  twenty.  Her  soft  voice  with  its  slight  lisp 
came  to  his  ears  like  a  caress.  He  laughed  when  he 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  embracing  that  graceful, 
slender  form;  it  would  break  in  pieces  in  his  pugilist's 
hands,  like  a  wax  doll.  Mariano  sought  her  out  in  the 
drawing-rooms  which  she  and  her  mother  were  accus- 
tomed to  frequent,  and  spent  all  the  time  sitting  at  her 
side,  feeling  an  impulse  to  confide  in  her  as  a  brother,  a 
desire  of  telling  her  all  about  herself,  his  past,  his  pres- 
ent work,  his  hopes,  as  if  she  were  a  room-mate.  She 
listened  to  him,  looking  at  him  with  her  brown  eyes  that 
seemed  to  smile  at  him,  nodding  assent,  often  without 
having  heard  what  he  said,  receiving  like  a  caress  the 
exuberance  of  that  nature  which  seemed  to  overflow  in 


44  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

waves  of  fire.  He  was  different  from  all  the  men  she 
had  known. 

When  someone — nobody  knows  who — perhaps  one  of 
Josephina's  friends,  noticed  this  intimacy,  to  make  sport 
of  her,  she  spread  the  news.  The  painter  and  the  Tor- 
realta  girl  were  engaged.  That  was  when  the  interested 
parties  discovered  that  they  loved  each  other.  It  was 
something  more  than  friendship  that  made  Renovales 
pass  through  Josephina's  street  mornings,  looking  at  the 
high  windows  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her  dainty  silhouette 
through  the  panes.  One  night  at  the  duchess'  when 
they  were  left  alone  in  the  hallway,  Renovales  caught  her 
hand  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  but  so  timidly  that  they 
scarcely  touched  her  glove.  He  was  afraid  after  his 
rudeness,  felt  ashamed  of  his  violence;  he  thought  he 
was  hurting  the  delicate,  slender  girl;  but  she  let  her 
hand  stay  in  his,  and  at  the  same  time  bowed  her  head 
and  began  to  cry. 

"How  good  you  are,  Mariano !" 

She  felt  the  most  intense  gratitude,  when  she  realized 
that  she  was  loved  for  the  first  time;  loved  truly,  by  a 
man  of  some  distinction,  who  fled  from  the  women  of 
fortune  to  seek  a  humble,  neglected  girl  like  her.  All  the 
treasures  of  affection  which  had  been  accumulating  In 
the  isolation  of  her  humiliating  life  overflowed.  How 
she  could  love  the  man  who  loved  her,  taking  her  out  of 
that  parasite's  existence,  lifting  her  by  his  strength  and 
affection  to  the  level  of  those  who  scorned  her !  ! 

The  noble  widow  of  Torrealta  gave  a  cry  of  indigna- 
tion when  she  learned  of  the  engagement  of  the  painter 
and  her  daughter.  "The  blacksmith's  son !"  "The  illus- 
trious diplomat  of  imperishable  memory !"  But  as  if  this 
protest  of  her  pride  opened  her  eyes,  she  thought  of  the 
years  her  daughter  had  spent  going  from  one  drawing- 
room  to  another,  without  anyone  paying  any  attention 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  45 

to  her.  What  dunces  men  were !  She  thought,  too,  that 
a  celebrated  painter  was  a  personage;  she  remembered 
the  articles  devoted  to  Renovales  because  of  his  last  pic- 
ture, and,  above  all,  a  thing  that  had  the  most  effect  on 
her,  she  knew  by  hearsay  of  the  great  fortune  that  artists 
amassed  abroad,  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  francs 
paid  for  a  canvas  that  could  be  carried  under  your  arm. 
Why  might  not  Renovales  be  one  of  the  fortunate? 

She  began  to  annoy  her  countless  relatives  with  re- 
quests for  advice.  The  girl  had  no  father  and  they 
must  take  his  place.  Some  answered  indifferently.  "The 
painter !  Hump !  Not  bad !"  evidencing  by  their  coldness 
that  it  was  all  the  same  to  them  if  she  married  a  tax- 
collector.  Others  insulted  her  unwittingly  by  showing 
their  approval.  "Renovales?  An  artist  with  a  great 
future  before  him.  What  more  do  you  want?  You 
ought  to  be  thankful  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to  her."  But 
the  advice  that  decided  her  was  that  of  her  famous 
cousin,  the  Marquis  of  Tarfe,  a  man  to  whom  she  looked 
upon  as  the  most  distinguished  citizen  in  the  country, 
without  doubt  because  of  his  office  as  permanent  head  of 
the  Foreign  Service,  for  every  two  years  he  was  made 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs. 

"It  looks  very  good  to  me/'  said  the  nobleman,  hastily, 
for  they  were  waiting  for  him  in  the  Senate.  "It  is  a 
modern  marriage  and  we  must  keep  up  with  the  times.  I 
am  a  conservative,  but  liberal,  very  liberal  and  very 
modern.  I  will  protect  the  children.  I  like  the  marriage. 
Art  joining  its  prestige  with  a  historic  family!  The 
popular  blood  that  rises  through  its  merits  and  is  mingled 
with  that  of  the  ancient  nobility!" 

And  the  Marquis  of  Tarfe,  whose  marquisate  did  not 
go  back  half  a  century,  with  these  rhetorical  figures  of  an 
orator  in  the  Senate  and  his  promises  of  protection,  con- 
vinced the  haughty  widow.  She  was  the  one  who  spoke 


46  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

to  Renovales,  to  relieve  him  of  an  explanation  that  would 
be  trying  because  of  the  timidity  he  felt  in  this  society 
that  was  not  his  own. 

"I  know  all  about  it,  Mariano,  my  dear,  and  you  have 
my  consent." 

But  she  did  not  like  long  engagements.  When  did  he 
intend  to  get  married  ?  Renovales  was  more  eager  for  it 
than  the  mother.  Josephina  was  different  from  other 
women  who  hardly  aroused  his  desire.  His  chastity, 
which  had  been  like  that  of  a  rough  laborer,  developed 
into  a  feverish  desire  to  make  that  charming  doll  his  own 
as  soon  as  possible.  Besides,  his  pride  was  flattered  by 
this  union.  His  fiancee  was  poor;  her  only  dowry  was  a 
few  ragged  clothes,  but  she  belonged  to  a  noble  family, 
ministers,  generals — all  of  noble  descent.  They  could 
weigh  by  the  ton  the  coronets  and  coats-of-arms  of  those 
countless  relatives  who  did  not  pay  much  attention  to 
Josephina  and  her  mother,  but  who  would  soon  be  his 
family.  What  would  Senor  Anton  think,  hammering 
iron  in  the  suburbs  of  his  town?  What  would  his  com- 
rades in  Rome  say,  whose  lot  consisted  in  living  with  the 
ciociare  who  served  as  their  models,  and  marrying  them 
afterward  out  of  fear  for  the  stiletto  of  the  venerable 
Calabrian  who  insisted  on  providing  a  legitimate  father 
for  his  grandsons ! 

The  papers  had  much  to  say  about  the  wedding,  re- 
peating with  slight  variations  the  very  phrases  of  the 
Marquis  of  Tarfe,  "Art  uniting  with  nobility."  Reno- 
vales  wanted  to  leave  for  Rome  with  Josephina  as  soon 
as  the  marriage  was  celebrated.  He  had  made  all  the  ar- 
rangements for  his  new  life  there,  investing  in  it  all  the 
money  he  had  received  from  the  State  for  his  picture  and 
the  product  of  several  pictures  for  the  Senate  for  which 
he  received  commissions  through  his  illustrious  rela- 
tive-to-be. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  471 

A  friend  in  Rome  (the  jolly  Cotoner)  hac  hired  for 
him  an  apartment  in  the  Via  Margutta  and  had  furnished 
it  in  accordance  with  his  artistic  taste.  Dona  Emilia 
would  remain  in  Madrid  with  one  of  her  sons,  who  had 
been  promoted  to  a  position  in  the  Foreign  Office.  Every- 
body, even  the  mother,  was  in  the  young  couple's  way. 
And  Dona  Emilia  wiped  away  an  invisible  tear  with  the 
tip  of  her  glove.  Besides,  she  did  not  care  to  go  back  to 
the  countries  where  she  had  been  somebody;  she  pre- 
ferred to  stay  in  Madrid ;  there  people  knew  her  at  least. 

The  wedding  was  an  event.  Not  a  soul  in  the  huge 
family  was  absent;  all  feared  the  annoying  questions  of 
the  illustrious  widow  who  kept  a  list  of  relatives  to  the 
sixth  remove. 

Senor  Anton  arrived  two  days  before,  in  a  new  suit 
with  knee-breeches  and  a  broad  plush  hat,  looking  some- 
what confused  at  the  smiles  of  those  people  who  re- 
garded him  as  a  quaint  type.  Crestfallen  and  trembling 
in  the  presence  of  the  two  women,  with  a  countryman's 
respect,  he  called  his  daughter-in-law  "Senorita." 

"No,  papa,  call  me  'daughter.'    Say  Josephina  to  me." 

But  in  spite  of  Josephina's  simplicity  and  the  tender 
gratitude  he  felt  when  he  saw  her  look  at  his  son  with 
such  loving  eyes,  he  did  not  venture  to  take  the  liberty  of 
speaking  to  her  as  his  child  and  made  the  greatest  efforts 
to  avoid  this  danger,  always  speaking  to  her  in  the  third 
person. 

Dona  Emilia,  with  her  gold  glasses  and  her  majestic 
bearing,  caused  him  even  greater  emotion.  He  always 
called  her  "Sefiora  marquesa,"  for  in  his  simplicity  he 
could  not  admit  that  that  lady  was  not  at  least  a  mar- 
chioness. The  widow,  somewhat  disarmed  by  the  good 
man's  homage,  admitted  that  he  was  a  "rube"  of  some 
natural  talent,  a  fact  that  made  her  tolerate  the  ridicu- 
lous note  of  his  knee  breeches. 


48  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

In  the  chapel  of  the  Marquis  of  Tarfe's  palace,  after 
looking  dumbfounded  at  the  great  throng  of  nobility  that 
had  gathered  for  his  son's  wedding,  the  old  man,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway,  began  to  cry : 

"Now  I  can  die,  O  Lord.    Now  I  can  die!" 

And  he  repeated  his  sad  desire,  without  noticing  the 
laughter  of  the  servants,  as  if,  after  a  life  of  toil,  happi- 
ness were  the  inevitable  forerunner  of  death. 

The  bride  and  groom  started  on  their  trip  the  same 
day.  Seiior  Anton  for  the  first  time  kissed  his  daughter- 
in-law  on  the  forehead,  moistening  it  with  his  tears,  and 
went  home  to  his  village,  still  repeating  his  longing  for 
death,  as  though  nothing  were  left  in  the  world  for  him 
to  hope  for. 

Renovales  and  his  wife  reached  Rome  after  several 
stops  on  the  way.  Their  short  stay  in  various  cities  of 
the  Riviera,  the  days  in  Pisa  and  Florence,  though  de- 
lightful, as  keeping  the  memory  of  their  first  intimacy, 
seemed  unspeakably  vulgar,  when  they  were  installed  in 
their  little  house  in  Rome.  There  the  real  honeymoon 
began,  by  their  own  fireside,  free  from  all  intrusion,  far 
from  the  confusion  of  hotels. 

Josephina,  accustomed  to  a  life  of  secret  privation,  to 
the  misery  of  that  fourth-floor  apartment  in  which  she 
and  her  mother  lived  as  though  they  were  camping  out, 
keeping  all  their  show  for  the  street,  admired  the  co- 
quettish charm,  the  smart  daintiness  of  the  house  m  the 
Via  Margutta.  Mariano's  friend,  who  had  charge  of  the 
furnishing  of  the  house,  a  certain  Pepe  Cotoner,  who 
hardly  ever  touched  his  brushes  and  who  devoted  all  his 
artistic  enthusiasm  to  his  worship  of  Renovales,  had  cer- 
tainly done  things  well. 

Josephina  clapped  her  hands  in  childish  joy  when  she 
saw  the  bedroom,  admiring  its  sumptuous  Venetian  fur- 
niture, with  its  wonderful  inlaid  pearl  and  ebony,  a 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  49 

princely  luxury  that  the  painter  would  have  to  pay  for 
in  instalments. 

Oh !  The  first  night  of  their  stay  in  Rome !  How  well 
Renovales  remembered  it!  Josephina,  lying  on  the 
monumental  bed,  made  for  the  wife  of  a  Doge,  shook 
with  the  delight  of  rest,  stretching  her  limbs  before  she 
hid  them  under  the  fine  sheets,  showing  herself  with  the 
abandon  of  a  woman  who  no  longer  has  any  secrets  to 
keep.  The  pink  toes  of  her  plump  little  feet  moved  as 
if  they  were  calling  Renovales. 

Standing  beside  the  bed,  he  looked  at  her  seriously, 
with  his  brows  contracted,  dominated  by  a  desire  that  he 
hesitated  to  express.  He  wanted  to  see  her,  to  admire 
her;  he  did  not  know  her  yet,  after  those  nights  in  the 
hotels  when  they  could  hear  strange  voices  on  the  other 
side  of  the  thin  walls. 

It  was  not  the  caprice  of  a  lover,  it  was  the  desire 
of  a  painter,  the  demand  of  an  artist.  His  eyes  were 
hungry  for  beauty. 

She  resisted,  blushing,  a  trifle  angry  at  this  demand 
which  offended  her  deepest  prejudices. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Mariano,  dear.  Come  to  bed;  don't 
talk  nonsense." 

But  he  persisted  obstinately  in  his  desire.  She  must 
overcome  her  bourgeois  scruples,  art  scoffed  at  such 
modesty,  human  beauty  was  meant  to  be  shown  in  all  its 
radiant  majesty  and  not  to  be  kept  hidden,  despised  and 
cursed. 

He  did  not  want  to  paint  her ;  he  did  not  dare  to  ask 
for  that;  but  he  did  want  to  see  her,  to  see  her  and 
admire  her,  not  with  a  coarse  desire,  but  with  religious 
adoration. 

And  his  hands,  restrained  by  the  fears  of  hurting  her, 
gently  pulled  her  weak  arms  that  were  crossed  on  her 
breast  in  the  endeavor  to  resist  his  advances.  She 


50  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

laughed:  "You  silly  thing.  You're  tickling  me — you're 
hurting  me."  But  little  by  little,  conquered  by  his  per- 
sistency, her  feminine  pride  flattered  by  this  worship  of 
her  body,  she  gave  in  to  him,  allowed  herself  to  be 
treated  like  a  child,  with  soft  remonstrances  as  if  she 
were  undergoing  torture,  but  without  resisting  any 
longer. 

Her  body,  free  from  veils,  shone  with  the  whiteness  of 
pearl.  Josephina  closed  her  eyes  as  if  she  wanted  to  flee 
from  the  shame  of  her  nakedness.  On  the  smooth  sheet, 
her  graceful  form  was  outlined  in  a  slightly  rosy  tone, 
intoxicating  the  eyes  of  the  artist. 

Josephina's  face  was  not  much  to  look  at,  but  her 
body !  If  he  could  only  overcome  her  scruples  some  time 
and  paint  her! 

Renovales  kneeled  down  beside  the  bed  in  a  transport 
of  admiration. 

"I  worship  you,  Josephina.  You  are  as  fair  as  Venus. 
No,  not  Venus.  She  is  cold  and  calm,  like  a  goddess,  and 
you  are  a  woman.  You  are  like — what  are  you  like? 
Yes,  now  I  see  the  likeness.  You  are  Goya's  little  Maja, 
with  her  delicate  grace,  her  fascinating  daintiness.  You 
are  the  Maja  Desnuda! 


Ill 


RENOVALES'  life  was  changed.  In  love  with  his  wife, 
fearing  that  she  might  lack  some  comfort,  and  thinking 
with  anxiety  of  the  Torrealta  widow,  who  might  com- 
plain that  the  daughter  of  the  "illustrious  diplomat  of 
imperishable  memory"  was  not  happy  because  she  had 
lowered  herself  to  the  extent  of  marrying  a  painter,  he 
worked  incessantly  to  maintain  with  his  brush  the  com- 
forts with  which  he  had  surrounded  Josephina. 

He,  who  had  had  so  much  scorn  for  industrial  art, 
painting  for  money,  as  did  his  comrades,  followed  their 
example,  but  with  the  energy  that  he  showed  in  all  his 
undertakings.  In  some  of  the  studios  there  were  cries 
of  protest  against  this  tireless  competitor  who  lowered 
prices  scandalously.  He  had  sold  his  brush  for  a  year  to 
one  of  those  Jewish  dealers  who  exported  paintings  at 
so  much  a  picture,  and  under  agreement  not  to  paint  for 
any  other  dealer.  Renovales  worked  from  morning  till 
night  changing  subjects  when  it  was  demanded  by  what 
he  called  his  impresario.  "Enough  ciociari,  now  for  some 
Moors."  Afterwards  the  Moors  lost  their  market-value 
and  the  turn  of  the  musketeers  came,  fencing  a  valiant 
duel ;  then  pink  shepherdesses  in  the  style  of  Watteau  or 
ladies  in  powdered  wigs  embarking  in  a  golden  gondola 
to  the  sound  of  lutes.  To  give  freshness  to  his  stock,  he 
would  interpolate  a  sacristy  scene  with  much  show  of 
'  embroidered  chasubles  and  golden  incensaries,  or  an  oc- 
casional bacchanalian,  imitating  from  memory,  without 
models,  Titians'  voluptuous  forms  and  amber  flesh.  When 
the  list  was  ended,  the  ciociari  were  once  more  in  style 

n 


52  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

and  could  be  begun  again.  The  painter  with  his  extraor- 
dinary facility  of  execution  produced  two  or  three  pic- 
tures a  week,  and  the  impresario,  to  encourage  him  in  his 
work,  often  visited  him  afternoons,  following  the  move- 
ments of  his  brush  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  man  who 
appreciated  art  at  so  much  a  foot  and  so  much  an  hour. 
The  news  he  brought  was  of  a  sort  to  infuse  new  zest. 

The  last  bacchanal  painted  by  Renovales  was  in  a 
fashionable  bar  in  New  York.  His  pageant  of  the 
Abruzzi  was  in  one  of  the  noblest  castles  in  Russia. 
Another  picture,  representing  a  dance  of  countesses  dis- 
guised as  shepherdesses  in  a  field  of  violets,  was  in  the 
possession  of  a  Jewish  baron,  a  banker  in  Frankfort. 
The  dealer  rubbed  his  hands,  as  he  spoke  to  the  painter 
with  a  patronizing  air.  His  name  was  becoming  famous, 
thanks  to  him,  and  he  would  not  stop  until  he  had  won 
him  a  world-wide  reputation.  Already  his  agents  were 
asking  him  to  send  nothing  but  the  works  of  Signor 
Renovales,  for  they  were  the  best  sellers.  But  Mariano 
answered  him  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  bitterness.  All 
those  canvases  were  mere  rot.  If  that  was  art,  he  would 
prefer  to  break  stone  on  the  high  roads. 

But  his  rebellion  against  this  debasement  of  his  art 
disappeared  when  he  saw  his  Josephina  in  the  house 
whose  ornamentation  he  was  constantly  improving,  con- 
verting it  into  a  jewel  case  worthy  of  his  love.  She  was 
happy  in  her  home,  with  a  splendid  carriage  in  which 
to  drive  every  afternoon  and  perfect  freedom  to  spend 
money  on  her  clothes  and  jewelry.  Renovales'  wife 
lacked  nothing;  she  had  at  her  disposal,  as  adviser  and 
errand-boy,  Cotoner,  who  spent  the  night  in  a  garret  that 
served  him  as  a  studio  in  one  of  the  cheap  districts  and 
the  rest  of  the  day  with  the  young  couple.  She  was  mis- 
tress of  the  money;  she  had  never  seen  so  many  bank- 
notes at  once.  When  Renovales  handed  her  the  pile  of 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  53 

lires  which  the  impresario  gave  him  she  said  with  a  little 
laugh  of  joy,  "Money,  money!"  and  ran  and  hid  it  away 
with  the  serious  expression  of  a  diligent,  economical 
housewife — only  to  take  it  out  the  next  day  and  squander 
it  with  a  childish  carelessness.  What  a  wonderful  thing 
painting  was!  Her  illustrious  father  (in  spite  of  all  that 
her  mother  said)  had  never  made  so  much  money  in  all 
his  travels  through  the  world,  going  from  cotillon  to 
cotillon  as  the  representative  of  his  king. 

While  Renovales  was  in  the  studio,  she  had  been  to 
drive  in  the  Pincio,  bowing  from  her  landau  to  the  count- 
less wives  of  ambassadors  who  were  stationed  at  Rome, 
to  aristocratic  travelers  stopping  in  the  city,  to  whom 
she  had  been  introduced  in  some  drawing-room,  and  to 
all  the  crowd  of  diplomatic  attaches  who  live  about  the 
double  court  of  the  Vatican  and  the  Quirinal. 

The  painter  was  introduced  by  his  wife  into  an  official 
society  of  the  most  rigid  formality.  The  niece  of  the 
Marquis  of  Tarfe,  perpetual  foreign  minister,  was  re- 
ceived with  open  arms  by  the  high  society  of  Rome,  the 
most  exclusive  in  Europe.  At  every  reception  at  the 
two  Spanish  embassies,  "the  famous  painter  Renovales 
and  his  charming  wife"  were  present  and  these  invita- 
tions had  spread  to  the  embassies  of  other  countries. 
Almost  every  night  there  was  some  function.  Since  there 
were  two  diplomatic  centers,  one  at  the  court  of  the 
Italian  king,  the  other  at  the  Vatican,  the  receptions  and 
evening  parties  were  frequent  in  this  isolated  society 
that  gathered  every  night,  sufficient  for  its  own  en- 
joyment. 

When  Renovales  got  home  at  dark,  tired  out  with  his 
work,  he  would  find  Josephina,  already  half  dressed, 
waiting  for  him,  and  Cotoner  helped  him  to  put  on  his 
evening  clothes. 

"The  cross !"  exclaimed  Josephina,  when  she  saw  him 


54,  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

with  his  dress-coat  on.  "Why,  man  alive,  how  did  you 
happen  to  forget  your  cross?  You  know  that  they  al- 
wear  something  there." 

Cotoner  went  for  the  insignia,  a  great  cross  the  Span- 
ish government  had  given  him  for  his  picture,  and  the 
artist,  with  the  ribbon  across  his  shirt-front  and  a  bril- 
liant circle  on  his  coat,  started  out  with  his  wife  to  spend 
the  evening  among  diplomats,  distinguished  travelers  and 
cardinals'  nephews. 

The  other  painters  were  furious  with  envy  when  they 
learned  how  often  the  Spanish  ambassador  and  his  wife, 
the  consul  and  prominent  people  connected  with  the 
Vatican  visited  his  studio.  They  denied  his  talent,  at- 
tributing these  distinctions  to  Josephina's  position.  They 
called  him  a  courtier  and  a  flatterer,  alleging  that  he  had 
married  to  better  his  position.  One  of  his  most  constant 
visitors  was  Father  Recovero,  the  representative  of  a 
monastic  order  that  was  powerful  in  Spain,  a  sort  of 
cowled  ambassador  who  enjoyed  great  influence  with  the 
Pope.  When  he  was  not  in  Renovales'  studio,  the  latter 
was  sure  that  he  was  at  his  house,  doing  some  favor  for 
Josephina  who  felt  proud  of  her  friendship  with  this  in- 
fluential friar,  so  jovial  and  scrupulously  correct  in  spite 
of  his  coarse  clothes.  Renovales'  wife  always  had  some 
favor  to  ask  of  him,  her  friends  in  Madrid  were  un- 
ceasing in  their  requests. 

The  Torrealta  widow  contributed  to  this  by  her  con- 
stant chatter  among  her  acquaintances  about  the  high 
position  her  daughter  occupied  in  Rome.  According  to 
her,  Mariano  was  making  millions;  Josephina  was  re- 
ported to  be  a  great  friend  of  the  Pope,  her  house  was 
full  of  Cardinals  and  if  the  Pope  did  not  visit  her  it  was 
only  because  the  poor  thing  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Vatican. 
And  so  the  painter's  wife  had  to  keep  sending  to  Madrid 
some  rosary  that  had  been  passed  over  St.  Peter's  t  mb 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  55 

pr  reliques  taken  from  the  Catacombs.  She  urged 
Father  Recovero  to  negotiate  difficult  marriage  dispensa- 
tions and  interested  herself  in  behalf  of  the  petitions  of 
pious  ladies,  friends  of  her  mother.  The  great  festivals 
of  the  Roman  Church  filled  her  with  enthusiasm  because 
of  their  theatrical  interest  and  she  was  very  grateful  to 
the  generous  friar  who  never  forgot  to  reserve  her  a 
good  place.  There  never  was  a  reception  of  pilgrims  in 
Saint  Peter's  with  a  triumphal  march  of  the  Pope  car- 
ried on  a  platform  amid  feather  fans,  at  which  Jo- 
sephina  was  not  present.  At  other  times  the  good  Father 
made  the  mysterious  announcement  that  on  the  next 
day  Pallestri,  the  famous  male  soprano  of  the  papal 
chapel,  was  going  to  sing ;  the  Spanish  lady  got  up  early, 
leaving  her  husband  still  in  bed,  to  hear  the  sweet  voice  of 
the  pontifical  eunuch  whose  beardless  face  appeared 
in  shop  windows  among  the  portraits  of  dancers  and 
fashionable  tenors. 

Renovales  laughed  good-naturedly  at  the  countless  oc- 
cupations and  futile  entertainments  of  his  wife.     Poor 
•irl,   she  must   enjoy   herself;  that  was   what  he   was 
working  for.     He  was  sorry  enough  that  he  could  go 
with  her  only  in  her  evening  diversions.     During  the 
day  he  entrusted  her  to  his  faithful  Cotoner  who  at- 
tended her   like   an   old    family   servant,   carrying   her 
bundles  when  she  went  shopping,  performing  the  duties 
of  butler  and  sometimes  of  chef. 

Renovales  had  made  his  acquaintance  when  he  came 
to  Rome.  He  was  his  best  friend.  Ten  years  his  sen- 
ior, Cotoner  showed  the  worship  of  a  pupil  and  the  af- 
fections of  an  older  brother  for  the  young  artist.  Every- 
one in  Rome  knew  him,  laughing  at  his  pictures  on  the 
rare  occasions  when  he  painted,  and  appreciated  his 
^accc  Timodating  nature  that  to  some  extent  dignified 
his  ^  arasite's  existence.  Short,  rotund,  bald-headed, 


56  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

with  projecting  ears  and  the  ugliness  of  a  good-natured, 
merry  satyr,  Signer  Cotoner,  when  summer  came,  al- 
ways found  refuge  in  the  castle  of  some  cardinal  in  the 
Roman  Campagna.  During  the  winter  he  was  a  famil- 
iar sight  in  the  Corso,  wrapped  in  his  greenish  mack- 
intosh, the  sleeves  of  which  waved  like  a  bat's  wings. 
He  had  begun  in  his  own  province  as  a  landscape  paint- 
er but  he  wanted  to  paint  figures,  to  equal  the  mas- 
ters, and  so  he  landed  in  Rome  in  the  company  of  the 
bishop  of  his  diocese  who  looked  on  him  as  an  honor  to 
the  church.  He  never  moved  from  the  city.  His  prog- 
ress was  remarkable.  He  knew  the  names  and  histories 
of  all  the  artists,  no  one  could  compare  with  him  in  his 
ability  to  live  economically  in  Rome  and  to  find  where 
things  were  cheapest.  If  a  Spaniard  went  through  the 
great  city,  he  never  missed  visiting  him.  The  children 
of  celebrated  painters  looked  on  him  as  a  sort  of  nurse, 
for  he  had  put  them  all  to  sleep  in  his  arms.  The  great 
triumph  of  his  life  was  having  figured  in  the  cavalcade 
of  the  Quixote  as  Sancho  Panza.  He  always  painted 
the  same  picture,  portraits  of  the  Pope  in  three  different 
sizes,  piling  them  up  in  the  attic  that  served  him  for  a 
studio  and  bedroom.  His  friends,  the  cardinals  whom 
he  visited  frequently,  took  pity  on  "Poor  Signor  Cot- 
oner"  and  for  a  few  lire  bought  a  picture  of  the  Pontiff 
horribly  ugly,  to  present  it  to  some  village  church  where 
it  would  arouse  great  admiration  since  it  came  from 
Rome  and  was  by  a  painter  who  was  a  friend  of  Hi* 
Eminence. 

These  purchases  were  a  ray  of  joy  for  Cotoner,  who 
came  to  Renovales'  studio  with  his  head  up  and  wearing 
a  smile  of  affected  modesty. 

"I  have  made  a  sale,  my  boy.  A  pope;  a  large  one, 
two  meter  size." 

And  with  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence  in  his  talent, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  57 

he  talked  of  the  future.  Other  men  desired  medals, 
triumphs  in  the  exhibitions;  he  was  more  modest.  He 
would  be  satisfied  if  he  could  guess  who  would  be  Pope 
when  the  present  Pope  died,  in  order  to  be  able  to  paint 
up  pictures,  of  him  by  the  dozen  ahead  of  time.  What  a 
triumph  to  put  the  goods  on  the  market  the  day  after 
the  Conclave!  A  perfect  fortune!  And  well  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  cardinals,  he  passed  the  Sacred 
College  in  mental  review  with  the  persistency  of  a  gam- 
bler in  a  lottery,  hesitating  between  the  half  dozen  who 
aspired  to  the  tiara.  He  lived  like  a  parasite  among 
the  high  functionaries  of  the  Church,  but  he  was  in- 
different to  religion,  as  if  this  association  with  them 
had  taken  away  all  his  belief.  The  old  man  clad  in 
white  and  the  other  red  gentlemen  inspired  respect  in 
him  because  they  were  rich  and  served  indirectly  his 
wretched  portrait  business.  His  admiration  was  wholly 
devoted  to  Renovales.  In  the  studio  of  other  artists  he 
received  their  irritating  jests  with  his  usual  calm  smile 
of  affability,  but  they  could  not  speak  ill  of  Renovales 
nor  discuss  his  ability.  To  his  mind,  Renovales  could 
produce  nothing  but  masterpieces  and  in  his  blind  ad- 
miration he  even  went  so  far  as  to  rave  naively  over 
the  easel  pictures  he  painted  for  his  impresario. 

Sometimes  Josephina  unexpectedly  appeared  in  her 
husband's  studio  and  chatted  with  him  while  he  painted, 
praising  the  canvases  that  had  a  pretty  subject.  She 
preferred  to  find  him  alone  in  these  visits,  painting  from 
his  fancy  without  any  other  model  than  some  clothes 
placed  on  a  manikin.  She  felt  a  sort  of  aversion  to 
models,  and  Renovales  tried  in  vain  to  convince  her  of 
the  necessity  of  using  them.  He  had  talent  to  paint 
beautiful  things  without  resorting  to  the  assistance  of 
those  ordinary  old  men  and  above  all,  of  those  women 
with  their  disheveled  hair,  their  flashing  eyes  and  their 


58  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

wolfish  teeth,  who,  in  the  solitude  and  silence  of  the 
studio,  actually  terrified  her.  Renovales  laughed.  What 
nonsense!  Jealous  little  girl!  As  if  he  were  capable 
of  thinking  of  anything  but  art  with  a  palette  in  his 
hand! 

One  afternoon,  when  Josephina  suddenly  came  into 
the  studio  she  saw  on  the  model's  platform  a  naked  wo- 
man, lying  in  some  furs,  showing  the  curves  of  her  yel- 
low back.  The  wife  compressed  her  lips  and  pretended 
not  to  see  her,  listened  to  Renovales  with  a  distracted 
air,  as  he  explained  this  innovation.  He  was  painting 
a  bacchanal  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  pro- 
ceed without  a  model.  It  was  a  case  of  necessity,  flesh 
could  not  be  done  from  memory.  The  model,  at  ease 
before  the  painter,  felt  ashamed  of  her  nakedness  in 
the  presence  of  that  fashionable  lady,  and  after  wrap- 
ping herself  up  in  the  furs,  hid  behind  a  screen  and  has- 
tily dressed  herself. 

Renovales  recovered  his  serenity  when  he  reached 
home,  seeing  that  his  wife  received  him  with  her  cus- 
tomary eagerness,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  her  displeas- 
ure of  the  afternoon.  She  laughed  at  Cotoner's  stories ; 
after  dinner  they  went  to  the  theater  and  when  bed- 
time came,  the  painter  had  forgotten  about  the  sur- 
prise in  the  studio.  He  was  falling  asleep  when  he  was 
alarmed  by  a  painful,  prolonged  sigh,  as  if  some  one 
were  stifling  beside  him.  When  he  lit  the  light  he  saw 
Josephina  with  both  fists  in  her  eyes,  crying,  her  breast 
heaving  with  sobs,  and  kicking  in  a  childish  fit  of  tem- 
per till  the  bed-clothes  were  rolled  in  a  ball  and  the  ex- 
quisite puff  fell  to  the  floor. 

"I  won't,  I  won't,"  she  moaned  with  an  accent  of  pro- 
test. 

The  painter  had  jumped  out  of  bed,  full  of  anxiety, 
going  from  one  side  to  the  other  without  knowing  what 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  59 

to  do,  trying  to  pull  her  hands  away  from  her  eyes,  giv- 
ing in,  in  spite  of  his  strength,  to  Josephina's  efforts 
to  free  herself  from  him. 

"But  what's  the  matter?  What  is  it  you  won't  do? 
What's  happened  to  you?" 

And  she  continued  to  cry,  tossing  about  in  the  bed, 
kicking  in  a  nervous  fury. 

"Let  me  alone !  I  don't  like  you ;  don't  touch  me.  I 
won't  let  you,  no,  sir,  I  won't  let  you.  I'm  going  away. 
I'm  going  home  to  my  mother." 

Renovales,  terrified  at  the  fury  of  the  little  woman 
who  was  always  so  gentle,  did  not  know  what  to  do  to 
calm  her.  He  ran  through  the  bedroom  and  the  ad- 
joining dressing  room  in  his  night  shirt,  that  showed  his 
athletic  muscles;  he  offered  her  water,  going  so  far  as 
to  pick  up  the  bottles  of  perfumes  in  his  confusion  as 
if  they  could  serve  him  as  sedatives,  and  finally  he  knelt 
down,  trying  to  kiss  the  clenched  little  hands  that  thrust 
him  away,  catching  at  his  hair  and  beard. 

"Let  me  alone.  I  tell  you  to  let  me  alone.  I  know 
you  don't  love  me.  I'm  going  away." 

The  painter  was  surprised  and  afraid  of  the  nervous- 
ness in  this  beloved  little  doll;  he  did  not  dare  to  touch 
her  for  fear  of  hurting  her.  As  soon  as  the  sun  rose 
she  would  leave  that  house  forever.  Her  husband  did 
not  love  her.  No  one  but  her  mother  cared  for  her.  He 
was  making  her  a  laughing  stock  before  people.  And 
all  these  incoherent  complaints  that  did  not  explain 
the  motive  for  her  anger,  continued  for  a  long  time  un- 
til the  artist  guessed  the  cause.  Was  it  the  model,  the 
naked  woman?  Yes,  that  was  it;  she  would  not  con- 
sent to  it,  that  in  a  studio  that  was  practically  her  house, 
low  women  should  show  themselves  immodestly  to  her 
husband's  eyes.  And  as  she  protested  against  such 
abominations,  her  twitching  fingers  tore  the  front  of 


60  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

her  night  dress,  showing  the  hidden  charms  that  filled 
Renovales  with  such  enthusiasm. 

The  painter,  tired  out  by  this  scene,  enervated  by  the 
cries  and  tears  of  his  wife,  could  not  help  laughing 
when  he  discovered  the  motive  of  her  irritation. 

"Ah!  So  it's  all  on  account  of  the  model.  Be  quiet, 
girl,  no  woman  shall  come  into  the  studio." 

And  he  promised  everything  Josephina  wished,  in 
order  to  be  over  with  it  as  soon  as  possible.  When  it 
was  dark  once  more,  she  was  still  sighing,  but  now  it  was 
in  her  husband's  strong  arms  with  her  head  resting  on  his 
breast,  lisping  like  a  grieved  child  that  tries  to  justify 
the  past  fit  of  temper.  It  did  not  cost  Mariano  any- 
thing to  do  her  this  favor.  She  loved  him  dearly,  so 
dearly,  and  she  would  love  him  still  more  if  he  respected 
her  prejudices.  He  might  call  her  bourgeois,  a  com- 
mon ordinary  soul,  but  that  was  what  she  wanted  to  be, 
just  as  she  always  had  been.  Besides,  what  was  the  need 
of  painting  naked  women  ?  Couldn't  he  do  other  things  ? 
She  urged  him  to  paint  children  in  smocks  and  san- 
dals, curly  haired  and  chubby,  like  the  child  Jesus;  old 
peasant  women  with  wrinkled,  copper-colored  faces, 
bald-headed  ancients  with  long  beards;  character 
studies,  but  no  young  women,  understand?  No  naked 
beauties!  Renovales  said  "yes"  to  everything,  draw- 
ing close  to  him  that  beloved  form  still  trembling  with 
its  past  rage.  They  clung  to  each  other  with  a  sort  of 
anxiety,  desirous  of  forgetting  what  had  happened,  and 
the  night  ended  peacefully  for  Renovales  in  the  happi- 
ness of  reconciliation. 

When  summer  came  they  rented  a  little  villa  at  Cas- 
tel-Gandolfo.  Cotoner  had  gone  to  Rivoli  in  the  train 
of  a  cardinal  and  the  married  couple  lived  in  the  coun- 
try accompanied  only  by  a  couple  of  maids  and  a  man- 
servant, who  took  care  of  Renovales'  painting  kit. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  61 

Josephina  was  perfectly  contented  in  this  retirement, 
far  from  Rome,  talking  with  her  husband  at  all  hours, 
free  from  the  anxiety  that  filled  her,  when  he  was 
working  in  his  studio.  For  a  month  Renovales  re- 
mained in  placid  idleness.  His  art  seemed  forgotten; 
the  boxes  of  paints,  the  easels,  all  the  artistic  luggage 
brought  from  Rome,  remained  packed  up  and  forgot- 
ten in  a  shed  in  the  garden.  Afternoons  they  took 
long  walks,  returning  home  at  nightfall  slowly,  with 
their  arms  around  each  other's  waists,  watching  the 
strip  of  pale  gold  in  the  western  sky,  breaking  the  rural 
silence  with  one  of  the  sweet,  passionate  romances  that 
came  from  Naples.  Now  that  they  were  alone  in  the 
intimacy  of  a  life  without  cares  or  friendships,  the  en- 
thusiastic love  of  the  first  days  of  their  married  life 
reawakened.  But  the  "demon  of  painting"  was  not  long 
in  spreading  over  him  his  invisible  wings,  which  seemed 
to  scatter  an  irresistible  enchantment.  He  became 
bored  at  the  long  hours  in  the  bright  sun,  yawned  in  his 
wicker  chair,  smoking  pipe  after  pipe,  not  knowing  what 
to  talk  about.  Josephina,  on  her  part,  tried  to  drive 
away  the  ennui  by  reading  some  English  novel  of  aris- 
tocratic life,  tiresome  and  moral,  to  which  she  had  taken 
a  great  liking  in  her  school  girl  days. 

Renovales  began  to  work  again.  His  servant  brought 
out  his  artist's  kit  and  he  took  up  his  palette  as  enthu- 
siastically as  a  beginner,  and  painted  for  himself  with  a 
religious  fervor  as  if  he  thought  to  purify  himself  from 
that  base  submission  to  the  commissions  of  a  dealer. 

He  studied  Nature  directly;  painted  delightful  bits 
of  landscapes,  tanned  and  repulsive  heads  that  breathed 
the  selfish  brutality  of  the  peasant.  But  this  artistic  ac- 
tivity did  not  seem  to  satisfy  him.  His  life  of  in- 
creased intimacy  with  Josephina  aroused  in  him  mys- 
terious longings  that  he  hardly  dared  to  formulate. 


62  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Mornings  when  his  wife,  fresh  and  rosy  from  her  bath, 
appeared  before  him  almost  naked,  he  looked  at  Her 
with  greedy  eyes. 

"Oh,  if  you  were  only  willing!  If  you  didn't  have 
that  foolish  prejudice  of  yours!" 

And  his  exclamations  made  her  smile,  for  her  fem- 
inine vanity  was  flattered  by  this  worship.  Renovales 
regretted  that  his  artistic  talent  had  to  go  in  search  of 
beautiful  things  when  the  supreme,  definitive  work  was 
at  his  side.  He  told  her  about  Rubens,  the  great  mas- 
ter, who  surrounded  Elene  Froment  with  the  luxury 
of  a  princess,  and  of  her  who  felt  no  objection  to  free- 
ing her  fresh,  mythological  beauty  from  veils  in  order 
to  serve  as  a  model  for  her  husband.  Renovales  praised 
the  Flemish  woman.  Artists  formed  a  family  by  them- 
selves ;  morality  and  the  popular  prejudices  were  meant 
for  other  people.  They  lived  under  the  jurisdiction  of 
Beauty,  regarding  as  natural  what  other  people  looked 
on  as  a  sin. 

Josephina  protested  against  her  husband's  wishes 
with  a  playful  indignation  but  she  allowed  him  to  ad- 
mire her.  Her  abandon  increased  every  day.  Morn- 
ings, when  she  got  up,  she  remained  undressed  longer, 
prolonging  her  toilette  while  the  artist  walked  around 
her,  praising  her  various  beauties.  "That  is  Rubens, 
pure  and  simple,  that's  Titian's  color.  Look,  little  girl, 
lift  up  your  arms,  like  this.  Oh,  you  are  the  Maja, 
Goya's  little  Maja."  And  she  submitted  to  him  with  a 
gracious  pout,  as  if  she  relished  the  expression  of  wor- 
ship and  disappointment  which  her  husband  wore  at 
possessing  her  as  a  woman  and  not  possessing  her  as 
a  model. 

One  afternoon  when  a  scorching  wind  seemed  to 
stifle  the  countryside  with  its  breath,  Josephina  capit- 
ulated. They  were  in  their  room,  with  the  windows 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  63 

closed,  trying  to  escape  the  terrible  sirocco  by  shutting 
it  out  and  putting  on  thin  clothes.  She  did  not  want 
to  see  her  husband  with  such  a  gloomy  face  nor  listen 
to  his  complaints.  As  long  as  he  was  crazy  and  was 
set  on  his  whim,  she  did  not  dare  to  oppose  him.  He 
could  paint  her;  but  only  a  study,  not  a  picture.  When 
he  was  tired  of  reproducing  her  flesh  on  the  canvas 
they  would  destroy  it, — just  as  if  he  had  done  nothing. 

The  painter  said  "yes"  to  everything,  eager  to  have 
his  brush  in  hand  as  soon  as  possible,  before  the  beauty 
he  craved.  For  three  days  he  worked  with  a  mad  fever, 
with  his  eyes  unnaturally  wide  open,  as  if  he  meant  to 
devour  the  graceful  outlines  with  his  sight.  Josephina, 
accustomed  now  to  being  naked,  posed  with  uncon- 
scious abandon,  with  that  feminine  shamelessness  which 
hesitates  only  at  the  first  step.  Oppressed  by  the  heat, 
she  slept  while  her  husband  kept  on  painting. 

When  the  work  was  finished,  Josephina  could  not 
help  admiring  it.  "How  clever  you  are!  But  am  I 
really  like  that,  so  pretty?"  Mariano  showed  his  satis- 
faction. It  was  his  masterpiece,  his  best.  Perhaps  in 
all  his  life  he  might  never  find  another  moment  like 
that,  of  prodigious  mental  intensity,  what  people  com- 
monly call  inspiration.  She  continued  to  admire  her- 
self in  the  canvas,  just  as  she  did  some  mornings  in  the 
great  mirror  in  the  bedroom.  She  praised  the  various 
parts  of  her  beauty  with  frank  immodesty.  Dazzled  by 
the  beauty  of  her  body  she  did  not  notice  the  face,  that 
seemed  unimportant,  lost  in  soft  veils.  When  her  eyes 
fell  on  it  she  showed  a  sort  of  disappointment. 

"It  doesn't  look  much  like  me !    It  isn't  my  face !" 

The  artist  smiled.  It  was  not  she;  he  had  tried  to  dis- 
guise her  face,  nothing  but  her  face.  It  was  a  mask,  a 
concession  to  social  conventions.  As  it  was,  no  one 


64.  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

would  recognize  her  and  his  work,  his  great  work,  might 
appear  and  receive  the  admiration  of  the  world. 

"Because,  we  aren't  going  to  destroy  it,"  Renovales 
continued  with  a  tremble  in  his  voice,  "that  would  be 
a  crime.  Never  in  my  life  will  I  be  able  to  do  anything 
like  it  again.  We  won't  destroy  it,  will  we,  little  girl?" 

The  little  girl  remained  silent  for  a  good  while  with 
her  gaze  fixed  on  the  picture.  Renovales'  eager  eyes 
saw  a  cloud  slowly  rise  over  her  face,  like  a  shadow 
on  a  white  wall.  The  painter  felt  as  though  the  floor 
were  sinking  under  his  feet ;  the  storm  was  coming.  Jo- 
sephina  turned  pale,  two  tears  slipped  slowly  down  her 
cheeks,  two  others  took  their  places  to  fall  with  them 
and  then  more  and  more. 

"I  won't!    I  won't!" 

It  was  the  same  hoarse,  nervous,  despotic  cry  that 
had  set  his  hair  on  end  with  anxiety  and  fear  that  night 
in  Rome.  The  little  woman  looked  with  hatred  at  the 
naked  body  that  radiated  its  pearly  light  from  the  depths 
of  the  canvas.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  terror  of  a  sleep- 
walker who  suddenly  awakens  in  the  midst  of  a  square 
surrounded  by  a  thousand  curious,  eager  eyes  and  in 
her  fright  does  not  know  what  to  do  nor  where  to  flee. 
How  could  she  have  assented  to  such  a  disgraceful 
thing? 

"I  won't  have  it!"  she  cried  angrily.  "Destroy  it, 
Mariano,  destroy  it." 

But  Mariano  seemed  on  th^  point  of  weeping  too. 
Destroy  it!  Who  could  demand  such  a  foolish  thing? 
That  figure  was  not  she;  no  one  would  recognize  her. 
What  was  the  use  of  depriving  him  of  a  signal  triumph? 
But  his  wife  did  not  listen  to  him.  She  was  rolling  on 
the  floor  with  the  same  convulsions  and  moans  as  on 
the  night  of  the  stormy  scene,  her  hands  were  clenched 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  65 

like  a  crook,  her  feet  kicked  like  a  dying  lamb's  and  her 
mouth,  painfully  distorted,  kept  crying  hoarsely: 

"I  won't  have  it !    I  won't  have  it !  Destroy  it !" 

She  complained  of  her  lot  with  a  violence  that 
wounded  Renovales.  She,  a  respectable  woman,  sub- 
mitted to  that  degradation  as  if  she  were  a  street  walker. 
If  she  had  only  known !  How  was  she  going  to  imagine 
that  her  husband  would  make  such  abominable  proposals 
to  her ! 

Renovales,  offended  at  these  insults,  at  these  lashes 
which  her  shrill,  piercing  voice  dealt  his  artistic  tal- 
ent, left  his  wife,  let  her  roll  on  the  floor  and  with 
clenched  fists,  went  from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the 
other,  looking  at  the  ceiling,  muttering  all  the  oaths, 
Spanish  and  Italian,  that  were  in  current  use  in  his 
studio. 

Suddenly  he  stood  still,  rooted  to  the  floor  by  terror 
and  surprise.  Josephina,  still  naked,  had  jumped  on  the 
picture  with  the  quickness  of  a  wild  cat.  With  the  first 
stroke  of  her  finger  nails,  she  scratched  the  canvas  from 
top  to  bottom,  mingling  the  colors  that  were  still  soft, 
tearing  off  the  thin  shell  of  the  dry  parts.  Then  she 
caught  up  the  little  knife  from  the  paint  box  and — rip! 
the  canvas  gave  a  long  moan,  parted  under  the  thrust 
of  that  white  arm  which  seemed  to  have  a  bluish  cast  in 
the  violence  of  her  wrath. 

He  did  not  move.  For  a  moment  he  felt  indignant, 
tempted  to  throw  himself  on  her  but  he  lapsed  into  a 
childish  weakness,  ready  to  cry,  to  take  refuge  in  a  cor- 
ner, to  hide  his  weak,  aching  head.  She,  blind  with 
wrath,  continued  to  vent  her  fury  on  the  picture,  tan- 
gling her  feet  in  the  wood  of  the  frame,  tearing  off 
pieces  of  canvas,  walking  back  and  forth  with  her  prey 
like  a  wild  beast.  The  artist  had  leaned  his  head  against 
the  wall,  his  strong  breast  shook  with  cowardly  sobs. 


66  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

To  the  almost  fatherly  grief  at  the  loss  of  his  work  was 
added  the  bitterness  of  disappointment.  For  the  first 
time  he  foresaw  what  his  life  was  going  to  be.  What 
a  mistake  he  had  made  in  marrying  that  girl  who  ad- 
mired his  art  as  a  profession,  as  a  means  of  making 
money,  and  who  was  trying  to  mold  him  to  the  prej- 
udices and  scruples  of  the  circle  in  which  she  was  born ! 
He  loved  her  in  spite  of  this  and  he  was  certain  that 
she  did  not  love  him  less,  but,  still,  perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better  to  remain  alone,  free  for  his  art  and, 
in  case  a  companion  was  necessary,  to  find  a  fair  maid 
of  all  work  with  all  the  splendor  and  intellectual  hu- 
mility of  a  beautiful  animal  that  would  admire  and  obey 
her  master  blindly. 

Three  days  passed  in  which  the  painter  and  his  wife 
hardly  spoke  to  each  other.  They  looked  at  each  other 
askance,  humbled  and  broken  by  this  domestic  trouble. 
But  the  solitude  in  which  they  lived,  the  necessity  of 
remaining  together  made  the  reconciliation  imperative. 
She  was  the  first  to  speak,  as  if  she  were  terrified  by  the 
sadness  and  dejection  of  that  huge  giant  who  wandered 
about  as  peevish  as  a  sick  man.  She  threw  her  arms 
around  him,  kissed  his  forehead,  made  a  thousand  gra- 
cious efforts  to  bring  a  faint  smile  to  his  face.  "Who 
loved  him  ?  His  Josephina.  His  Mafa  but  not  his  Maja 
Desnuda;  that  was  over  forever.  He  must  never  think 
of  those  horrible  things.  A  decent  painter  does  not 
think  of  them.  What  would  all  her  friends  say?  There 
were  many  pretty  things  to  paint  in  the  world.  They 
must  live  in  each  other's  love,  without  his  displeasing 
her  with  his  hateful  whims.  His  affection  for  the  nude 
was  a  shameful  remnant  of  his  Bohemian  days. 

And  Renovales,  won  over  by  his  wife's  petting,  made 
peace, — tried  to  forget  his  work  and  smiled  with  the 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  67 

resignation  of  a  slave  who  loves  his  chain  because  it 
assures  him  peace  and  life. 

They  returned  to  Rome  at  the  beginning  of  the  fall. 
Renovales  began  his  work  for  the  contractor,  but  after 
a  few  months  the  latter  seemed  dissatisfied.  Not  that 
Signer  Mariano  was  losing  power,  not  at  all,  but  his 
agents  complained  of  a  certain  monotony  in  the  sub- 
jects of  his  works.  The  dealer  advised  him  to  travel; 
he  might  stay  awhile  in  Umbria,  painting  peasants  in 
ascetic  landscapes,  or  old  churches;  he  might — and  this 
was  the  best  thing  to  do — move  to  Venice.  How  much 
Signer  Mariano  could  accomplish  in  those  canals!  And 
it  was  thus  that  the  idea  of  leaving  Rome  first  came  to 
the  painter. 

Josephina  did  not  object.  That  daily  round  of  re- 
ceptions in  the  countless  embassies  and  legations  was 
beginning  to  bore  her.  Now  that  the  charm  of  the 
first  impressions  had  disappeared,  Josephina  noticed 
that  the  great  ladies  treated  her  with  an  annoying  con- 
descension as  if  she  had  descended  from  her  rank  in 
marrying  an  artist.  Besides,  the  younger  men  in  the 
embassies,  the  attaches  of  different  nationalities,  some 
light,  some  dark,  who  sought  relief  from  their  celibacy 
without  going  outside  diplomatic  society,  were  disgrace- 
fully impudent  as  they  danced  with  her  or  went  through 
the  figures  of  a  cotillion,  as  if  they  considered  her  an 
easy  conquest,  seeing  her  married  to  an  artist  who  could 
not  display  an  ugly  uniform  in  the  drawing  rooms. 
They  made  cynical  declarations  to  her  in  English  or 
German  and  she  had  to  keep  her  temper,  smiling  and  bit- 
ing her  lips,  close  to  Renovales,  who  did  not  understand 
a  word  and  showed  his  satisfaction  at  the  attentions 
of  which  his  wife  was  the  object  on  the  part  of  the  fash- 
ionable youths  whose  manners  he  tried  to  imitate. 

The  trip  was  decided  on.    They  would  go  to  Venice! 


68  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Their  friend  Cotoner  said  "Good-by,"  he  was  sorry  to 
part  from  them  but  his  place  was  in  Rome.  The  Pope 
was  ailing  just  at  that  time  and  the  painter,  in  the  hope 
of  his  death,  was  preparing  canvases  of  all  sizes,  striv- 
ing to  guess  who  would  be  his  successor. 

As  he  went  back  in  his  memories,  Renovales  always 
thought  of  his  life  in  Venice  with  a  sort  of  pleasant 
homesickness.  It  was  the  best  period  of  his  life.  The 
enchanting  city  of  the  lagoons,- — bathed  in  golden  light, 
lulled  by  the  lapping  of  the  water,  fascinated  him  from 
the  first  moment,  making  him  forget  his  love  for  the 
human  form.  For  some  time  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
nude  was  calmed.  He  worshiped  the  old  palaces,  the 
solitary  canals,  the  lagoon  with  its  green,  motionless  wa- 
ter, the  soul  of  a  majestic  past,  which  seemed  to  breathe 
in  the  solemn  old  age  of  the  dead,  eternally  smiling  city. 

They  lived  in  the  Foscarini  palace,  a  huge  building 
with  red  walls  and  casements  of  white  stone  that  opened 
on  a  little  alley  of  water  adjoining  the  Grand  Canal.  It 
was  the  former  abode  of  merchants,  navigators  and 
conquerors  of  the  Isles  of  the  East  who  in  times  gone 
by  had  worn  on  their  heads  the  golden  horn  of  the 
Doges.  The  modern  spirit,  utilitarian  and  irreverent, 
had  converted  the  palace  into  a  tenement,  dividing  gilded 
drawing  rooms  with  ugly  partitions,  establishing 
kitchens  in  the  filigreed  arcades  of  the  seignorial  court, 
filling  the  marble  galleries  to  which  the  centuries  gave 
the  amber-like  transparency  of  old  ivory,  with  clothes 
hung  out  to  dry  and  replacing  the  gaps  in  the  superb 
mosaic  with  cheap  square  tiles. 

Renovales  and  his  wife  occupied  the  apartment  near- 
est the  Grand  Canal.  Mornings,  Josephina  saw  from  a 
bay  window  the  rapid  silent  approach  of  her  husband's 
gondola.  The  gondolier,  accustomed  to  the  service  of 
artists,  shouted  to  the  painter,  till  Renovales  came  down 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  69 

with  his  box  of  water-colors  and  the  boat  started  im- 
mediately through  the  narrow,  winding  canals,  moving 
the  silvered  comb  of  its  prow  from  one  side  to  the  other 
as  if  it  were  feeling  the  way.  What  mornings  of  placid 
silence  in  the  sleeping  .water  of  an  alley,  between  two 
palaces  whose  boldly  projecting  roofs  kept  the  sur- 
face of  the  little  canal  in  perpetual  shadow!  The  gon- 
dolier slept  stretched  out  in  one  of  the  curving  ends  of 
his  boat  and  Renovales,  sitting  beside  the  black  can- 
opy, painted  his  Venetian  water-colors,  a  new  type  that 
his  impresario  in  Rome  received  with  the  greatest  en- 
thusiasm. His  deftness  enabled  him  to  produce  these 
works  with  as  much  facility  as  if  they  were  mechan- 
ical copies.  In  the  maze  of  canals  he  had  one  of  his  own 
which  he  called  his  "estate"  on  account  of  the  money  it 
netted  him.  He  had  painted  again  and  again  its  dead, 
silent  waters  which  all  day  long  were  never  rippled  ex- 
cept by  his  gondola;  two  old  palaces  with  broken  blinds, 
the  doors  covered  with  the  crust  of  years,  stairways 
rotted  with  mold  and  in  the  background  a  little  arch 
of  light,  a  marble  bridge  and  under  it  the  life,  the  move- 
ment, the  sun  of  a  broad,  busy  canal.  The  neglected 
little  alley  came  to  life  every  week  under  Renovales' 
brush — he  could  paint  it  with  his  eyes  shut — and  the  busi- 
ness initiative  of  the  Roman  Jew  scattered  it  through 
the  world. 

The  afternoons  Mariano  passed  with  his  wife.  Some- 
times they  went  in  a  gondola  to  the  promenade  of  the 
Lido  and  sitting  on  the  sandy  beach,  watched  the  angry 
surface  of  the  open  Adriatic,  that  stretched  its  tossing 
white  caps  to  the  horizon,  like  a  flock  of  snowy  sheep 
hurrying  in  the  rush  of  a  panic. 

Other  afternoons  they  walked  in  the  Square  of  Saint 
Mark,  under  the  arcades  of  its  three  rows  of  palaces 
where  they  could  see  in  the  background,  by  the  last  rays 


70  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

of  the  sun,  the  pale  gold  of  the  basilica  gleaming,  as  if 
in  its  walls  and  domes  there  were  crystallized  all  the 
wealth  of  the  ancient  Republic. 

Renovales,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  walked  calmly  as 
if  the  majesty  of  the  place  impelled  him  to  a  sort  of 
noble  bearing.  The  august  silence  was  not  disturbed  by 
the  deafening  hubbub  of  other  great  capitals;  no  rat- 
tling of  carts  or  footsteps  of  horses  or  hucksters'  cries. 
The  Square,  with  its  white  marble  pavement,  was  a 
huge  drawing  room  through  which  the  visitors  passed 
as  if  they  were  making  a  call.  The  musicians  of  the 
Venice  band  were  gathered  in  the  center  with  their  hats 
surmounted  by  black  waving  plumes.  The  blasts  of  the 
Wagnerian  brasses,  galloping  in  the  mad  ride  of  the 
Valkyries,  made  the  marble  columns  shake  and  seemed 
to.  give  life  to  the  four  golden  horses  that  reared  over 
space  with  silent  whinnies  on  the  cornice  of  St.  Mark's. 

The  dark-feathered  doves  of  Venice  scattered  in  play- 
ful spirals,  somewhat  frightened  at  the  music,  finally 
settled,  like  rain,  on  the  tables  of  the  cafe.  Then,  tak- 
ing flight  again,  they  blackened  the  roof  of  the  palaces 
and  once  more  swooped  down  like  a  mantle  of  metallic 
luster  on  the  groups  of  English  tourists  in  green  veils 
and  round  hats,  who  called  them  in  order  to  offer  them 
grain. 

Josephina,  with  childish  eagerness,  left  her  husband 
in  order  to  buy  a  cone  full  of  grain,  and  spreading  it 
out  in  her  gloved  hands  she  gathered  the  wards  of  St. 
Mark  around  her;  they  rested  on  the  flowers  of  her 
head,  fluttering  like  fantastic  crests,  they  hopped  on  her 
shoulders,  or  lined  up  on  her  outstretched  arms,  they 
clung  desperately  to  her  slight  hips,  trying  to  walk 
around  her  waist,  and  others,  more  daring,  as  if  pos- 
sessed of  human  mischievousness,  scratched  her 
breast,  reached  out  their  beaks  striving  to  caress  her 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  71 

ruddy,  half -opened  lips  through  the  veil.  She  laughed, 
trembling  at  the  tickling  of  the  animated  cloud  that 
rubbed  against  her  body.  Her  husband  watched  her, 
laughing  too,  and  certain  that  no  one  but  she  would  un- 
derstand him,  he  called  to  her  in  Spanish. 

"My,  but  you  are  beautiful!  I  wish  I  could  paint 
your  picture !  If  it  weren't  for  the  people,  I  would  kiss 
you/' 

Venice  was  the  scene  of  her  happiest  days.  She  lived 
quietly  while  her  husband  worked,  taking  odd  corners 
of  the  city  for  his  models.  When  he  left  the  house,  her 
placid  calm  was  not  disturbed  by  any  trouble- 
some thought.  This  was  painting,  she  was  sure, — and 
not  the  conditions  of  affairs  in  Rome,  where  he  would 
shut  himself  up  with  shameless  women  who  were  not 
afraid  to  pose  stark  naked.  She  loved  him  with  a  re- 
newed passion,  she  petted  him  with  constant  caresses. 
It  was  then  that  her  daughter  was  born,  their  only  child. 

Majestic  Dona  Emilia  could  not  remain  in  Madrid 
when  she  learned  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  grand- 
mother. Her  poor  Josephina,  in  a  foreign  land,  with 
no  one  to  take  care  of  her  but  her  husband,  who  had 
some  talent  according  to  what  people  said,  but  who 
seemed  to  her  rather  ordinary!  At  her  son-in-law's 
expense,  she  made  the  trip  to  Venice  and  there  she 
stayed  for  several  months,  fuming  against  the  city,  which 
she  had  never  visited  in  her  diplomatic  travels.  The 
distinguished  lady  considered  that  no  cities  were  inhab- 
itable except  the  capitals  that  have  a  court.  Pshaw! 
Venice !  A  shabby  town  that  no  one  liked  but  writers  of 
romanzas  and  decorators  of  fans,  and  where  there  were 
nothing  higher  than  consuls.  She  liked  Rome  with  its 
Pope  and  kings.  Besides,  it  made  her  seasick  to  ride 
in  the  gondolas  and  she  complained  constantly  of  the 
rheumatism,  blaming  it  to  the  dampness  of  the  lagoons. 


72  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Renovales,  who  had  feared  for  Josephina's  life,  be- 
lieving that  her  weak,  delicate  constitution  could  not 
stand  the  shock,  broke  out  into  cries  of  joy  when  he 
received  the  little  one  in  his  arms  and  looked  at  the 
mother  with  her  head  resting  on  the  pillow  as  if  she  were 
dead.  Her  white  face  was  hardly  outlined  against  the 
white  of  the  linen.  His  first  thought  was  for  her,  for 
the  pale  features,  distorted  by  the  recent  crisis,  which 
gradually  were  growing  calmer  with  rest.  Poor  little 
girl!  How  she  had  suffered!  But  as  he  tip-toed  out 
of  the  bed  room  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  heavy  sleep 
that,  after  two  cruel  days,  had  overpowered  the  sick  wo- 
man, he  gave  himself  up  to  his  admiration  for  the  bit  of 
flesh  that  lay  in  the  huge  flabby  arms  of  the  grand- 
mother, wrapped  in  fine  linen.  Ah,  what  a  dear  little 
thing!  He  looked  at  the  livid  little  face,  the  big  head, 
thinly  covered  with  hair,  seeking  for  some  suggestion 
of  himself  in  this  surge  of  flesh  that  was  in  motion  and 
still  without  definite  form.  "Mamma,  whom  does  she 
look  like?" 

Dona  Emilia  was  surprised  at  his  blindness.  Whom; 
should  she  look  like?  Like  him,  no  one  but  him.  She 
was  large,  enormous;  she  had  seen  few  babies  as  large 
as  this  one.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  her  poor 
daughter  could  live  after  giving  birth  to  "that."  They 
could  not  complain  that  she  was  not  healthy;  she  was 
as  ruddy  as  a  country  baby. 

"She's  a  Renovales;  she's  yours,  wholly  yours,  Ma- 
riano. We  belong  to  a  different  class." 

And  Renovales,  without  noticing  his  mother's  words, 
saw  only  that  his  daughter  was  like  him,  overjoyed  to 
see  how  robust  she  was,  shouting  his  pleasure  at  the 
health  of  which  the  grandmother  spoke  in  a  disappointed 
tone. 

In  vain  did  he  and  Dona  Emilia  try  to  dissuade  Jo- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT,  73 

sephina  from  nursing  the  baby.  The  little  woman,  in 
spite  of  the  weakness  that  kept  her  motionless  in  bed, 
wept  and  cried  almost  as  she  had  in  the  crises  that  had 
so  terrified  Renovales. 

"I  won't  have  it,"  she  said  with  that  obstinacy  that 
made  her  so  terrible. 

"I  won't  have  a  strange  woman's  milk  for  my  daugh- 
ter. I  will  nurse  her,  her  mother." 

And  they  had  to  give  the  baby  to  her. 

When  Josephina  seemed  recovered,  her  mother,  feel- 
ing that  her  mission  was  over,  went  home  to  Madrid. 
She  was  bored  to  death  in  that  silent  city  of  Venice, 
night  after  night  she  thought  she  was  dead,  for  she  could 
not  hear  a  single  sound  from  her  bed.  The  calm,  in- 
terrupted now  and  then  by  the  shouts  of  the  gondoliers 
filled  her  with  the  same  terror  that  she  felt  in  a  ceme- 
tery. She  had  no  friends,  she  did  not  "shine";  there 
was  nobody  in  that  dirty  hole  and  nobody  knew  her. 
She  was  always  recalling  her  distinguished  friends  in 
Madrid  where  she  thought  she  was  an  indispensable 
personage.  The  modesty  of  her  granddaughter's  chris- 
tening left  a  deep  impression  in  her  mind  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  gave  her  name  to  the  child;  an  insignifi- 
cant little  party  that  needed  only  two  gondolas;  she, 
who  was  the  godmother,  with  the  godfather,  an  old 
Venetian  painter,  who  was  a  friend  of  Renovales  and, 
besides,  Renovales  himself  and  two  artists,  a  French- 
man and  another  Spaniard.  The  Patriarch  of  Venice 
did  not  officiate  at  the  baptism,  not  even  a  bishop.  And 
she  knew  so  many  of  them  at  home.  A  mere  priest, 
who  was  in  a  shameful  hurry,  had  been  sufficient  to 
christen  the  granddaughter  of  the  famous  diplomat,  in 
a  little  church,  as  the  sun  was  setting.  She  went  away 
repeating  once  more  that  Josephina  was  killing  herself, 
that  it  was  perfect  folly  for  her  to  nurse  the  baby  in 


74  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

her  delicate  condition,  regretting  that  she  did  not  fol- 
low the  example  of  her  mother  who  had  always  in- 
trusted her  children  to  nurses. 

Josephina  cried  bitterly  when  her  mother  went,  but 
Renovales  said  "good-by"  with  ill-concealed  joy.  Bon 
voyage!  He  simply  could  not  endure  the  woman,  al- 
ways complaining  that  she  was  being  neglected  when 
she  saw  how  her  son-in-law  was  working  to  make  her 
daughter  happy.  The  only  thing  he  agreed  with  her  in 
was  in  scolding  Josephina  tenderly  for  her  obstinacy 
in  nursing  the  baby.  Poor  little  Maja  Desnuda!  Her 
form  had  lost  its  bud-like  daintiness  in  the  full  flower 
of  motherhood. 

She  appeared  more  robust,  but  the  stoutness  was  ac- 
companied by  an  anemic  weakness.  Her  husband,  see- 
ing how  she  was  losing  her  daintiness,  loved  her  with 
more  tender  compassion.  Poor  little  girl !  How  good 
she  was !  She  was  sacrificing  herself  for  her  daughter. 

When  the  baby  was  a  year  old,  the  great  crisis  in 
Renovales'  life  occurred.  Desirous  of  taking  a  "bath 
in  art,"  of  knowing  what  was  going  on  outside  of  the 
dungeon  in  which  he  was  imprisoned,  painting  at  so 
much  a  piece,  he  left  Josephina  in  Venice  and  made  a 
short  trip  to  Paris  to  see  its  famous  Salon.  He  came 
back  transfigured,  with  a  new  fever  for  work  and  a 
determination  to  transform  his  existence  which  filled  his 
wife  with  astonishment  and  fear.  He  was  going  to 
break  with  his  impresario,  he  would  no  longer  debase 
himself  with  that  false  painting,  even  if  he  had  to  beg 
for  his  living.  Great  things  were  being  done  in  the 
world,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  the  courage  to  be  an  in- 
novator, following  the  steps  of  those  modern  painters 
who  made  such  a  profound  impression  on  him. 

Now  he  hated  old  Italy,  where  artists  went  to  study 
under  the  protection  of  ignorant  governments. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT,  75 

In  reality  what  they  found  there  was  a  market  of 
tempting  commissions  where  they  soon  grew  accus- 
tomed to  taking  orders,  to  the  luxurious,  indifferent  life 
of  easy  profit.  He  wanted  to  move  to  Paris.  But  Jo- 
sephina,  who  listened  to  Renovales'  fancies  in  silence, 
unable  to  understand  them  for  the  most  part,  modified 
this  determination  by  her  advice.  She  too  wanted  to 
leave  Venice.  The  city  seemed  gloomy  in  the  winter 
with  its  ceaseless  rains  that  left  the  bridges  slippery  and 
the  marble  alleys  impassable.  Since  they  were  deter- 
mined to  break  up  camp,  why  not  go  back  to  Ma- 
drid? Mamma  was  sick,  she  complained  in  all  her 
letters  at  living  so  far  from  her  daughter.  Josephina 
wanted  to  see  her,  she  had  a  presentiment  that  her 
mother  was  going  to  die.  Renovales  thought  it  over; 
he  too  wanted  to  go  back  to  Spain.  He  felt  homesick; 
he  thought  of  the  great  stir  he  would  cause  there,  teach- 
ing his  new  methods  amid  the  general  routine.  The  de- 
sire of  shocking  the  Academicians,  who  had  accepted 
him  before  because  he  had  renounced  his  ideals,  tempted 
him. 

They  went  back  to  Madrid  with  little  Milita,  as  they 
called  her  for  short,  abbreviating  the  diminutive  of  Em- 
ilia. Renovales  brought  with  him  as  his  whole  capital 
some  few  thousand  lire,  that  represented  Josephina's 
savings  and  the  product  of  his  sale  of  part  of  the  fur- 
niture that  decorated  the  poorly  furnished  halls  of  the 
Foscarini  palace. 

At  first  it  was  hard.  Dona  Emilia  died  a  few  months 
after  they  reached  Madrid.  Her  funeral  did  not  come 
up  to  the  dreams  the  illustrious  widow  had  always  fash- 
ioned. Hardly  a  score  of  her  countless  relatives  were 
present.  Poor  old  lady,  if  she  had  known  how  her  hopes 
were  destined  to  be  disappointed!  Renovales  was  al- 
most glad  of  the  event.  With  it,  the  only  tie  that  bound 


76  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

them  to  society  was  broken.  He  and  Josephina  lived 
in  a  fifth  story  flat  on  the  Calle  de  Alcala,  near  the  Plaza 
de  Toros,  with  a  large  terrace  that  the  artist  converted 
into  a  studio.  Their  life  was  modest,  secluded,  hum- 
ble, without  friends  or  functions.  She  spent  the  day 
taking  care  of  her  daughter  and  the  house,  without 
help  except  a  dull,  poorly-paid  maid.  Oftentimes  when 
she  seemed  most  active,  she  fell  into  a  sudden  languor, 
complaining  of  strange,  new  ailments. 

Mariano  hardly  ever  worked  at  home;  he  painted  out 
of  doors.  He  despised  the  conventional  light  of  the 
studio,  the  closeness  of  its  atmosphere.  He  wandered 
through  the  suburbs  of  Madrid  and  the  neighboring 
provinces  in  search  of  rough,  simple  types,  whose  faces 
seemed  to  bear  the  stamp  of  the  ancient  Spanish  soul. 
He  climbed  the  Guadarrama  in  the  midst  of  winter, 
standing  alone  in  the  snowy  fields  like  an  Arctic  ex- 
plorer, to  transfer  to  his  canvas  the  century-old  pines, 
twisted  and  black  under  their  caps  of  frozen  sleet. 

When  the  Exhibition  took  place,  Renovales'  name 
became  famous  in  a  flash.  He  did  not  present  a  huge 
picture  with  a  key,  as  he  had  at  his  first  triumph.  They 
were  small  canvases,  studies  prompted  by  a  chance 
meeting;  bits  of  nature,  men  and  landscapes  reproduced 
with  an  astonishing,  brutal  truth  that  shocked  the  pub- 
lic. 

The  sober  fathers  of  painting  writhed  as  if  they  had 
received  a  slap  in  the  face,  before  those  sketches  that 
seemed  to  flame  among  the  other  dead,  leaden  pictures. 
They  admitted  that  Renovales  was  a  painter,  but  he 
lacked  imagination,  invention,  his  only  merit  was  his  abil- 
ity to  transfer  to  the  canvas  what  his  eyes  saw.  The 
younger  men  flocked  to  the  standard  of  the  new  master; 
there  were  endless  disputes,  impassioned  arguments, 
deadly  hatred,  and  over  this  battle  Renovales'  name 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  77 

flitted,  appearing  almost  daily  in  the  newspapers,  till  he 
was  almost  as  celebrated  as  a  bull-fighter  or  an  orator  in 
the  Congress. 

The  struggle  lasted  for  six  years,  giving  rise  to  a 
storm  of  insults  and  applause  every  time  that  Renovales 
exhibited  one  of  his  works,  and  meanwhile  the  mas- 
ter, discussed  as  he  was,  lived  in  poverty,  forced  to 
paint  watercolors  in  the  old  style  which  he  secretly  sent 
to  his  dealer  in  Rome.  But  all  combats  have  their  end. 
The  public  finally  accepted  as  unquestionable  a  name 
that  they  saw  every  day;  his  enemies,  weakened  by  the 
unconscious  effect  of  public  opinion,  grew  tired,  and  the 
master  like  all  innovators,  as  soon  as  the  first  success  of 
the  scandal  was  over,  began  to  limit  his  daring,  prun- 
ing and  softening  his  original  brutality.  The  dreaded 
painter  became  fashionable.  The  easy,  instantaneous 
success  he  had  won  at  the  beginning  of  his  career  was 
renewed,  but  more  solidly  and  more  definitely,  like  a 
conquest  made  by  rough,  hard  paths  when  there  is  a 
struggle  at  every  step. 

Money,  the  fickle  page,  came  back  to  him,  holding 
the  train  of  glory.  He  sold  pictures  at  prices  unheard 
of  in  Spain  and  they  grew  fabulously  as  they  were  re- 
peated by  his  admirers.  Some  American  millionaires, 
surprised  that  a  Spanish  painter  should  be  mentioned 
abroad  and  that  the  principal  reviews  in  Europe  should 
reproduce  his  works,  bought  canvases  as  objects  of 
great  luxury.  The  master,  embittered  by  the  poverty 
of  his  years  of  struggle,  suddenly  felt  a  longing  for 
money,  an  overpowering  greed  that  his  friends  had  never 
known  in  him.  His  wife  seemed  to  grow  more  sick- 
ly every  day;  her  daughter  was  growing  up  and 
he  wanted  his  Milita  to  have  the  education  and  the  lux- 
uries of  a  princess.  They  now  had  a  respectable  house 
of  their  own,  but  he  wanted  something  better  for  them. 


78  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

His  business  instinct,  which  everyone  recognized  in  him 
when  he  was  not  blinded  by  some  artistic  prejudice, 
strove  to  make  his  brush  an  instrument  of  great  profits. 

Pictures  were  bound  to  disappear,  according  to  the 
master.  Modern  rooms,  small  and  soberly  decorated, 
were  not  fitted  for  the  large  canvases  that  ornamented 
the  walls  of  drawing  rooms  in  the  old  days.  Besides, 
the  reception  rooms  of  the  present,  like  the  rooms  in  a 
doll's  house,  were  good  merely  for  pretty  pictures 
marked  by  stereotyped  mannerisms.  Scenes  taken  from 
nature  were  out  of  place  in  this  background.  The 
only  way  to  make  money  then  was  to  paint  portraits 
and  Renovales  forgot  his  distinction  as  an  innovator  in 
order  to  win  at  any  cost  fame  as  a  portrait  painter  of 
society  people.  He  painted  members  of  the  royal  fam- 
ily in  all  sorts  of  postures,  not  omitting  any  of  their  im- 
portant occupations;  on  foot,  and  on  horseback,  with  a 
general's  plumes  or  a  gray  hunting  jacket,  killing  pi- 
geons or  riding  in  an  automobile.  He  portrayed  the 
beauties  of  the  oldest  families,  concealing  imperceptibly, 
with  clever  dissimulation,  the  ravages  of  time,  giving 
firmness  to  the  flabby  flesh  with  his  brush,  holding  up 
the  heavy  eyelids  and  cheeks  that  sagged  with  fatigue 
and  the  poison  of  rouge.  After  successes  at  court,  the 
rich  considered  a  portrait  by  Renovales  as  an  indispen- 
sable decoration  for  their  drawing  rooms.  They  sought 
him  because  his  signature  cost  thousands  of  dollars;  to 
possess  a  canvas  by  him  was  an  evidence  of  opulence, 
quite  as  necessary  as  an  automobile  of  the  best  make. 

Renovales  was  as  rich  as  a  painter  can  be.  It  was  at 
that  time  that  he  built  what  envious  people  called  his 
"pantheon" ;  a  magnificent  mansion  behind  the  iron  grat- 
ing of  the  Retiro. 

He  had  a  violent  desire  to  build  a  home  after  his  own 
heart  and  image,  like  thoee  mollwsks  that  build  a  shell 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  791 

with  the  substance  of  their  bodies  so  that  it  may  serve 
both  as  a  dwelling  and  a  defense.  There  awakened  in 
him  that  longing  for  show,  for  pompous,  swaggering, 
amusing  originality  that  lies  dormant  in  the  mind  of 
every  artist.  At  first  he  planned  a  reproduction  of  Ru- 
bens' palace  in  Antwerp,  open  loggie  for  studios,  leafy 
gardens  covered  with  flowers  at  all  seasons,  and  in 
the  paths,  gazelles,  giraffes,  birds  of  bright  plumage, 
like  flying  flowers,  and  other  exotic  animals  which  this 
great  painter  used  as  models  in  his  desire  to  copy  Na- 
ture in  all  its  magnificence. 

But  he  was  forced  to  give  up  this  dream,  on  account 
of  the  nature  of  the  building  sites  in  Madrid,  a  few 
thousand  feet  of  barren,  chalky  soil,  bounded  by  a 
wretched  fence  and  as  dry  as  only  Castile  can  be.  Since 
this  Rubenesque  ostentation  was  not  possible,  he  took 
refuge  in  Classicism  and  in  a  little  garden  he  erected  a 
sort  of  Greek  temple  that  should  serve  at  once  as  a 
dwelling  and  a  studio.  On  the  triangular  pediment  rose 
three  tripods  like  torch-holders,  that  gave  the  house  the 
appearance  of  a  commemorative  tomb.  But  in  order 
that  those  who  stopped  outside  the  grating  might  make 
no  mistake,  the  master  had  garlands  of  laurel,  palettes 
surrounded  with  crowns,  carved  on  the  stone  fagade, 
and  in  the  midst  of  this  display  of  simple  modesty  a 
short  inscription  in  gold  letters  of  average  size — "Re- 
novales."  Exactly  like  a  store.  Inside,  in  two  studios 
where  no  one  ever  painted  and  which  led  to  the  real 
working  studio,  the  finished  pictures  were  exhibited  on 
easels  covered  with  antique  textures,  and  callers  gazed 
with  wonder  at  the  collection  of  properties  fit  for  a  thea- 
ter,— suits  of  armor,  tapestries,  old  standards  hanging 
from  the  ceiling,  show-cases  full  of  ancient  knick- 
knacks,  deep  couches  with  canopies  of  oriental  stuffs 
supported  by  lances,  century  old  coffers  and  open  secre- 


80  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT' 

taries  shining  with  the  pale  gold  of  their  rows  of  draw- 
ers. 

These  studios  where  no  one  studied  were  like  the 
luxurious  line  of  waiting  rooms  in  the  house  of  a  doc- 
tor who  charges  twenty  dollars  for  a  consultation,  or 
like  the  anterooms,  furnished  in  dark  leather  with  ven- 
erable pictures,  of  a  famous  lawyer,  who  never  opens 
his  mouth  without  carrying  off  a  large  portion  of  his 
client's  fortune.  People  who  waited  in  these  two 
studios  spacious  as  the  nave  of  a  church,  with  the  si- 
lent majesty  which  comes  with  the  lapse  of  years,  were 
brought  to  the  necessary  frame  of  mind  to  make  them 
submit  to  the  enormous  prices  the  master  demanded. 

Renovales  had  "made  good"  and  he  could  rest  calm- 
ly, as  his  admirers  said.  And  still  the  master  was 
gloomy ;  his  nature,  embittered  by  his  years  of  silent  suf- 
fering, broke  out  in  violent  fits  of  temper. 

The  slightest  attack  by  some  insignificant  enemy  was 
enough  to  send  him  into  a  rage.  His  pupils  thought  it 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  getting  old.  His  .strug- 
gles had  so  aged  him  that  with  his  heavy  beard  and  his 
round  shoulders  he  looked  ten  years  older  than  he  was. 

In  this  white  temple,  on  the  pediment  of  which  his 
name  shone  in  letters  of  glorious  gold,  he  was  not  so 
happy  as  in  the  modest  houses  in  Italy  or  the  little  gar- 
ret near  the  Plaza  de  Toros.  All  that  was  left  of  the 
Josephina  of  the  first  months  of  his  married  life  was  a 
distant  shadow.  The  "Maja  Desnuda"  of  the  happy 
nights  in  Rome  and  Venice  was  nothing  but  a  memory. 
On  her  return  to  Spain  the  false  stoutness  of  mother- 
hood had  disappeared. 

She  grew  thin,  as  if  some  hidden  fire  were  devouring 
her;  the  flesh  that  had  covered  her  body  with  graceful 
curves  melted  away  in  the  flames  that  burned  within  her. 
The  sharp  angles  and  dark  hollows  of  her  skeleton  be- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  81 

gan  to  show  beneath  her  pale,  flabby  flesh.  Poor  "Maja 
Desnuda" !  Her  husband  pitied  her,  attributing  her  de- 
cline to  the  struggles  and  cares  she  had  suffered  when 
they  first  returned  to  Madrid. 

For  her  sake,  he  was  eager  to  conquer,  to  become 
rich,  that  he  might  provide  her  with  the  comforts  he 
had  dreamed  of.  Her  illness  seemed  to  be  mental;  it 
was  neurasthenia,  melancholia.  The  poor  woman  had 
suffered  without  doubt  at  being  condemned  to  a  pau- 
per's existence,  in  Madrid,  where  she  had  once  lived 
in  comparative  splendor,  this  time  in  a  wretched  house, 
struggling  with  poverty,  forced  to  perform  the  most 
menial  tasks.  She  complained  of  strange  pains,  her  legs 
lost  their  strength,  she  sank  into  a  chair  where  she  would 
stay  motionless  for  hours  at  a  time,  weeping  with- 
out knowing  why.  Her  digestion  was  poor;  for  weeks 
her  stomach  refused  all  nourishment.  At  night  she 
would  toss  about  in  bed,  unable  to  sleep  and  at  day- 
break she  was  up  flitting  about  the  house  with  a 
feverish  activity,  turning  things  upside  down,  finding 
fault  with  the  servant,  with  her  husband,  with  herself, 
until  suddenly  she  would  collapse  from  the  height  of 
her  excitement  and  begin  to  cry. 

These  domestic  trials  broke  the  painter's  spirit,  but 
he  bore  them  patiently.  Now  a  gentle  sympathy  was 
added  to  his  former  love,  when  he  saw  her  so  weak, 
without  any  remnant  of  her  former  charm  except  her 
eyes,  sunk  in  their  bluish  sockets,  bright  with  the  mys- 
terious fire  of  fever.  Poor  little  girl!  Her  struggles 
brought  her  to  such  a  pass.  Her  weakness  filled  Re- 
no vales  with  a  sort  of  remorse.  Her  lot  was  that  of  the 
soldier  who  sacrifices  himself  for  his  general's  glory. 
He  had  conquered,  but  he  left  behind  him  the  woman 
he  loved,  fallen  in  the  struggle  because  she  was  the 
weaker. 


82  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

He  admired,  too,  her  maternal  self-sacrifice.  The 
baby,  Milita,  who  attracted  attention  because  of  her 
whiteness  and  ruddiness,  had  the  strength  that  her 
mother  lacked.  The  greediness  of  this  strong,  enslav- 
ing creature  had  absorbed  all  of  the  mother's  life. 

When  the  artist  was  rich  and  installed  his  family  in 
the  new  house,  he  thought  that  Josephina  was  going 
to  get  well.  The  doctors  were  confident  of  a  rapid  im- 
provement. The  first  day  that  they  walked  through  the 
parlors  and  studios  of  the  new  house,  taking  note  of 
the  furniture  and  the  valuables,  old  and  new,  with  a 
glance  of  satisfaction,  Renovales  put  him  arm  around 
the  waist  of  the  weak  little  doll,  bending  his  head  over 
her,  caressing  her  forehead  with  his  bearded  lips. 

Everything  was  hers,  the  house  and  its  sumptuous 
decorations,  hers  too  was  the  money  that  was  left  and 
that  he  would  continue  to  make.  She  was  the  owner, 
the  absolute  mistress,  she  could  spend  all  she  wanted  to, 
he  would  stand  for  everything.  She  could  wear  stylish 
clothes,  have  carriages,  make  her  former  friends  green 
with  envy,  be  proud  of  being  the  wife  of  a  famous 
painter,  much  more  proud  than  others  who  had  landed 
a  ducal  crown  by  marriage.  Was  she  satisfied? 

She  said  "Yes,"  nodding  her  assent  weakly,  and  she 
even  stood  on  tip-toe  to  kiss  the  lips  that  seemed  to 
caress  her  through  a  cloud  of  hair,  but  her  expression 
was  sad  and  her  listless  movements  were  like  a  with- 
ered flower's,  as  if  there  was  no  joy  on  earth  that  could 
lift  her  out  of  this  dejection. 

After  a  few  days,  when  the  first  impress  of  the  change 
in  her  mode  of  life  was  over,  the  old  outbreaks 
that  had  so  often  disturbed  their  former  dwelling  be- 
gan again  in  the  luxurious  palace. 

Renovales  found  her  in  the  dining-room  with  her 
head  in  her  hands,  crying,  but  unwilling  to  explain  the 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  83 

cause  of  her  tears.  When  he  tried  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  caressing  her  like  a  child,  the  little  woman  became 
as  agitated  as  if  she  had  received  an  insult 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried  with  a  hostile  look.  "Don't 
touch  me.  Go  away!" 

At  other  times  he  looked  all  over  the  house  for  her 
in  vain,  questioning  Milita  who,  accustomed  to  her  moth- 
er's outbreaks  and  made  selfish  by  her  girlish  strength, 
paid  little  attention  to  her  and  kept  on  playing  with  her 
dolls. 

"I  don't  know,  papa;  she's  probably  crying  up  stairs," 
she  would  answer  naively. 

And  in  some  corner  of  the  upper  story,  in  the  bed- 
room, beside  the  bed  or  among  the  clothes  in  the  ward- 
robe, the  husband  would  find  her,  sitting  on  the  floor 
with  her  chin  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall 
as  if  she  were  looking  at  something  invisible  and  mys- 
terious that  only  she  could  see.  She  was  not  crying, 
her  eyes  were  dry  and  enlarged  with  an  expression  of 
terror,  and  her  husband  tried  in  vain  to  attract  her  at- 
tention. She  remained  motionless,  cold,  indifferent  to 
his  caresses,  as  if  he  were  a  stranger,  as  if  there  were  a 
hopeless  gap  between  them. 

"I  want  to  die,"  she  said  in  a  serious,  tense  tone.  "I 
am -of  no  use  in  the  world;  I  want  to  rest." 

The  deadly  resignation  would  change  a  moment  later 
into  furious  antagonism.  Renovales  could  never  teH 
how  the  quarrel  began.  The  most  insignificant  word  on 
his  part,  the  expression  of  his  face,  silence  even,  was 
all  that  was  needed  to  bring  on  the  storm.  Josephina 
began  to  speak  with  a  taunting  accent  that  made  her 
words  cut  like  cold  steel.  She  found  fault  with  the 
painter  for  what  he  did  and  what  he  did  not  do,  for  his 
most  trifling  habits,  for  what  he  painted,  and  presently, 
extending  the  radius  of  her  insults  to  include  the  whole 


S4,  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

world,  she  broke  out  into  denunciations  of  the  distin- 
guished people  who  formed  her  husband's  clientele  and 
brought  him  such  profits.  He  might  be  satisfied  with 
painting  the  portraits  of  those  people,  disreputable  so- 
ciety men  and  women.  Her  mother,  who  was  in  close 
touch  with  that  society,  had  told  her  many  stories  about 
them.  The  women  she  knew  still  better;  almost  all  of 
them  had  been  her  companions  at  boarding-school  or  her 
friends.  They  had  married  to  make  sport  of  their  hus- 
bands; they  all  had  a  past,  they  were  worse  than  the 
women  who  walked  the  streets  at  night.  This  house 
with  all  its  fagade  of  laurels  and  its  gold  letters  was 
a  brothel.  One  of  these  fine  days  she  would  come  into 
the  studio  and  throw  them  into  the  street  to  have  their 
pictures  painted  somewhere  else. 

"For  God's  sake,  Josephina,"  Renovales  murmured 
with  a  troubled  voice,  "don't  talk  like  that.  Don't  think 
of  such  outrageous  things.  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
talk  that  way.  Milita  will  hear  us." 

Now  that  her  nervous  anger  was  exhausted,  Josephina 
would  burst  into  tears  and  Renovales  would  have  to 
leave  the  table  and  take  her  to  bed,  where  she  lay,  cry- 
ing out  for  the  hundredth  time  that  she  wanted  to  die. 

This  life  was  even  more  intolerable  because  he  was 
faithful  to  his  wife,  because  his  love,  mingled  with  habit 
and  routine,  kept  him  firmly  devoted  to  her. 

At  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  several  of  his  friends 
used  to  gather  in  his  studio,  among  them  the  jolly  Co- 
toner  who  had  moved  to  Madrid.  When  the  twilight 
crept  in  through  the  huge  window  and  made  them  all 
prone  to  friendly  confidences,  Renovales  always  made 
the  same  statement. 

"As  a  boy  I  had  my  good  times  just  like  anyone  else, 
but  since  I  was  married  I  have  never  had  anything  to 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  85 

do  with  any  woman  except  my  own  wife.  I  am  proud 
to  say  so." 

And  the  big  man  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height 
and  stroked  his  beard,  as  proud  of  his  faithfulness-  to 
his  wife  as  other  men  are  of  their  good  fortune  in  love. 

When  they  talked  about  beautiful  women  in  his  pres- 
ence, or  looked  at  portraits  of  great  foreign  beauties, 
the  master  did  not  conceal  his  approval. 

"Very  beautiful !    Very  pretty  to  paint !" 

His  enthusiasm  over  beauty  never  went  beyond  the 
limits  of  art.  There  was  only  one  woman  in  the  world 
for  him,  his  wife;  the  others  were  models. 

He,  who  carried  in  his  mind  a  perfect  orgy  of  flesh, 
who  worshiped  the  nude  with  religious  fervor,  re- 
served all  his  manly  homage  for  his  wife  who  grew  con- 
stantly more  sickly,  more  gloomy,  and  waited  with  the 
patience  of  a  lover  for  a  moment  of  calm,  a  ray  of  sun- 
light among  the  incessant  storms. 

The  doctors,  who  admitted  their  inability  to  cure  the 
nervous  disorder  that  was  consuming  the  wife,  had 
hopes  of  a  sudden  change  and  recommended  to  the 
husband  that  he  should  be  extremely  kind  to  her.  This 
only  increased  his  patient  gentleness.  They  attributed 
the  nervous  trouble  to  the  birth  and  nursing  of  the  child, 
that  had  broken  her  weak  health;  they  suspected,  too, 
the  existence  of  some  unknown  cause  that  kept  the  sick 
woman  in  constant  excitement. 

Renovales,  who  studied  his  wife  closely  in  his  eager- 
ness to  recover  peace  in  his  house,  soon  discovered  the 
true  cause  of  her  illness. 

Milita  was  growing  up;  already  she  was  a  woman. 
She  was  fourteen  years  old  and  wore  long  skirts,  and 
her  healthy  beauty  was  beginning  to  attract  the  glances 
of  men. 

"One  of  these  days  they'll  carry  her  off,"  said  the 


86  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

master  laughing.  And  his  wife,  when  she  heard  him 
talking  about  marriage,  making  conjectures  on  his  fu- 
ture son-in-law,  closed  her  eyes  and  said  in  a  tense  voice, 
that  revealed  her  insuperable  obstinacy: 

"She  shall  marry  anyone  she  wants  to, — except  a 
painter.  I  would  rather  see  her  dead  than  that." 

It  was  then  Renovales  divined  his  wife's  true  illness. 
It  was  jealousy,  a  terrific,  deadly,  ruinous  jealousy;  it 
was  the  sadness  of  realizing  that  she  was  sickly.  She 
was  certain  of  her  husband;  she  knew  his  declarations 
of  faithfulness  to  her.  But  when  the  painter  spoke  of 
his  artistic  interests  in  her  presence,  he  did  not  hide  his 
worship  of  beauty,  his  religious  cult  of  form.  Even  if 
he  was  silent,  she  penetrated  his  thoughts;  she  read  in 
him  that  fervor  which  dated  from  his  youth  and  had 
grown  greater  as  the  years  went  by.  When  she  looked 
at  the  statues  of  sovereign  nakedness  that  decorated 
the  studios,  when  she  glanced  through  the  albums  of 
pictures  where  the  light  of  flesh  shone  brightly  amid 
the  shadows  of  the  engraving,  she  compared  them  men- 
tally with  her  own  form  emaciated  by  illness. 

Renovales'  eyes  that  seemed  to  worship  every  beauty 
of  form  were  the  same  eyes  that  saw  her  in  all  her  ugli- 
ness. That  man  could  never  love  her.  His  faithfulness 
was  pity,  perhaps  habit,  unconscious  virtue.  She  could 
not  believe  that  it  was  love.  This  illusion  might  be 
possible  with  another  man,  but  he  was  an  artist.  By  day 
he  worshiped  beauty;  at  night  he  was  brought  face  to 
face  wifch  ugliness,  with  physical  wretchedness. 

She  was  constantly  tormented  by  jealousy,  that  embit- 
tered her  mind  and  consumed  her  life,  a  jealousy  that 
was  inconsolable  for  the  very  reason  that  it  had  no  real 
foundation. 

The  consciousness  of  her  ugliness  brought  with  it  a 
sadness,  an  insatiable  envy  of  everyone,  a  desire  to  die 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  8* 

but  to  kill  the  world  first,  that  she  might  drag1  it  down 
with  her  in  her  fall. 

Her  husband's  caresses  irritated  her  like  an  insult 
Maybe  he  thought  he  loved  her,  maybe  his  advance* 
were  in  good  faith,  but  she  read  his  thoughts  and  she 
found  there  her  irresistible  enemy,  the  rival  that  over- 
shadowed her  with  her  beauty.  And  there  was  no  rem- 
edy for  this.  She  was  married  to  a  man  who,  as  long! 
as  he  lived,  would  be  faithful  to  his  religion  of  beauty _^ 
How  well  she  remembered  the  days  when  she  had  re- 
fused to  allow  her  husband  to  paint  her  youthful  body! 
If  youth  and  beauty  would  but  come  back  to  her,  she 
would  recklessly  cast  off  all  her  veils,  would  stand  in 
the  middle  of  the  studio  as  arrogantly  as  a  bacchante, 
crying, 

"Paint!  Satisfy  yourself  with  my  flesh,  and  when- 
ever you  think  of  your  eternal  beloved,  whom  you  call 
Beauty,  fancy  that  you  see  her  with  my  face,  that  she 
has  my  body!" 

It  was  a  terrible  misfortune  to  be  the  wife  of  an 
artist.  She  would  never  marry  her  daughter  to  a 
painter ;  she  would  rather  see  her  dead.  Men  who  carry 
with  them  the  demon  of  form,  cannot  live  in  peace  and 
happiness  except  with  a  companion  who  is  eternally 
young,  eternally  fair. 

Her  husband's  fidelity  made  her  desperate.  That 
chaste  artist  was  always  musing  over  the  memory  of 
naked  beauties,  fancying  pictures  he  did  not  dare  to 
paint  for  fear  of  her.  With  her  sick  woman's  penetra- 
tion, she  seemed  to  read  this  longing  in  her  husband's 
face.  She  would  have  preferred  certain  infidelity,  to 
see  him  in  love  with  another  woman,  mad  with  passion. 
He  might  return  from  such  a  wandering  outside  the 
bonds  of  matrimony,  wearied  and  humble,  begging  her 
forgiveness;  but  from  the  other,  he  would  never  return. 


!88  AVOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

When  Renovales  discovered  the  cause  of  her  sadness, 
he  tenderly  undertook  to  cure  his  wife's  mental  disor- 
der. He  avoided  speaking  of  his  artistic  interests  in  her 
presence;  he  discovered  terrible  defects  in  the  fair  la- 
dies who  sought  him  as  a  portrait  painter;  he  praised 
Josephina's  spiritual  beauty;  he  painted  pictures  of  her, 
putting  her  features  on  the  canvas,  but  beautifying  them 
with  subtle  skill. 

She  smiled,  with  that  eternal  condescension  that  a 
woman  has  for  the  most  stupendous,  most  shameful  de- 
ceits, as  long  as  they  flatter  her. 

"It's  you,"  said  Renovales,  "your  face,  your  charm, 
your  air  of  distinction.  I  really  don't  think  I  have  made 
you  as  beautiful  as  you  are." 

She  continued  to  smile,  but  soon  her  look  grew  hard, 
her  lips  tightened  and  the  shadow  spread  little  by  lit- 
tle across  her  face. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  painter's  as  if  she  were  scru- 
tinizing his  thoughts. 

It  was  a  lie.  Her  husband  was  flattering  her;  he 
thought  he  loved  her,  but  only  his  flesh  was  faithful. 
The  invincible  enemy,  the  eternal  beloved,  was  mistress 
of  his  mind. 

Tortured  by  this  mental  unfaithfulness  and  by  the 
rage  which  her  helplessness  produced,  she  would  gradu- 
ally fall  into  one  of  the  nervous  storms  that  broke  out 
in  a  shower  of  tears  and  a  thunder  of  insults  and  re- 
criminations. 

Renovales'  life  was  a  hell  at  the  very  time  when  he 
possessed  the  glory  and  wealth  which  he  had  dreamed 
of  so  many  years,  building  on  them  his  hope  of  happi- 
ness. 


IV! 


IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  the  painter 
went  home  after  his  luncheon  with  the  Hungarian. 

As  he  entered  the  dining-room,  before  going  to  the 
studio,  he  saw  two  women  with  their  hats  and  veils  on 
who  looked  as  if  they  were  getting  ready  to  go  out.  One 
of  them,  as  tall  as  the  painter,  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck. 

"Papa,  dear,  we  waited  for  you  until  nearly  two 
o'clock.  Did  you  have  a  good  luncheon  ?" 

And  she  kissed  him  noisily,  rubbing  her  fresh,  rosy 
cheeks  against  the  master's  gray  beard. 

Renovales  smiled  good  naturedly  under  this  shower  of 
caresses.  Ah,  his  Milita !  She  was  the  only  joy  in  that 
gloomy,  showy  house.  It  was  she  who  sweetened  that 
atmosphere  of  tedious  strife  which  seemed  to  emanate 
from  the  sick  woman.  He  looked  at  his  daughter  with 
an  air  of  comic  gallantry. 

"Very  pretty ;  yes,  I  swear  you  are  very  pretty  to-day. 
You  are  a  perfect  Rubens,  my  dear,  a  brunette  Rubens. 
And  where  are  we  going  to  show  off  ?" 

He  looked  with  a  father's  pride  at  that  strong,  rosy 
body,  in  which  the  transition  to  womanhood  was  marked 
by  a  sort  of  passing  delicacy — the  result  of  her  rapid 
growth — and  a  dark  circle  around  her  eyes.  Her  soft, 
mysterious  glance  was  that  of  a  woman  who  is  beginning 
to  understand  the  meaning  of  life.  She  dressed  with  a 
sort  of  exotic  elegance ;  her  clothes  had  a  masculine  ap- 
pearance; her  mannish  collar  and  tie  were  in  keeping 
with  the  rigid  energy  of  her  movements,  with  her  wide- 

80 


90  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

soled  English  boots,  and  the  violent  swing  of  her  legs  that 
opened  her  skirts  like  a  compass  when  she  walked,  more 
intent  on  speed  and  a  heavy  step  than  on  a  graceful  car- 
riage. The  master  admired  her  healthy  beauty.  What  a 
splendid  specimen !  The  race  would  not'  die  out  with  her. 
She  was  like  him,  wholly  like  him ;  if  he  had  been  a 
woman,  he  would  have  been  like  his  Milita. 

She  kept  on  talking,  without  taking  her  arms  from  her 
father's  shoulders,  with  her  eyes,  tremulous  like  molten 
gold,  fixed  on  the  master. 

She  was  going  for  her  daily  walk  with  "Miss,"  a  two 
hours'  tramp  through  the  Castellana  and  the  Retiro,  with- 
out stopping  a  moment  to  sit  down,  taking  a  peripatetic 
lesson  in  English  on  the  way.  For  the  first  time  Re- 
novales  turned  around  to  speak  to  "Miss,"  a  stout  woman 
with  a  red,  wrinkled  face  who,  when  she  smiled,  showed 
a  set  of  teeth  that  shone  like  yellow  dominoes.  In  the 
studio  Renovales  and  his  friends  often  laughed  at 
"Miss's"  appearance  and  eccentricities,  at  her  red  wig 
that  was  placed  on  her  head  as  carelessly  as  a  hat,  at  her 
terrible  false  teeth,  at  her  bonnets  that  she  made  herself 
out  of  chance  bits  of  ribbon  and  discarded  ornaments,  of 
her  chronic  lack  of  appetite,  that  forced  her  to  live  on 
beer,  which  kept  her  in  a  continual  state  of  confusion, 
which  was  revealed  in  her  exaggerated  curtsies.  Soft 
and  heavy  from  drink,  she  was  alarmed  at  the  approach 
of  the  hour  of  the  walk,  a  daily  torment  for  her,  as  she 
tried  painfully  to  keep  up  with  Milita's  long  strides.  See- 
ing the  painter  looking  at  her,  she  turned  even  redder  and 
made  three  profound  curtsies. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Renovales,  oh,  sir !" 

And  she  did  not  call  him  "Lord,"  because  the  master 
greeting  her  with  a  nod,  forgot  her  presence  and  began  to 
talk  again  with  his  daughter. 

Milita  was  eager  to  hear  about  her  father's  luncheon 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  91 

with  Tekli.  And  so  he  had  had  some  Chianti?  Selfish 
man !  When  he  knew  how  much  she  liked  it !  He  ought 
to  have  let  them  know  sooner  that  he  would  not  be  home. 
Fortunately  Cotoner  was  at  the  house  and  mamma  had 
made  him  stay,  so  that  they  would  not  have  to  lunch 
alone.  Their  old  friend  had  gone  to  the  kitchen  and  pre- 
pared one  of  those  dishes  he  had  learned  to  make  in  the 
days  when  he  was  a  landscape-painter.  Milita  observed 
that  all  landscape-painters  knew  something  about  cook- 
ing. Their  outdoor  life,  the  necessities  of  their  wander- 
ing existence  among  country  inns  and  huts,  defying  pov- 
erty, gave  them  a  liking  for  this  art. 

They  had  had  a  very  pleasant  luncheon;  mamma  had 
laughed  at  Cotoner 's  jokes,  who  was  always  in  good 
humor,  but  during  the  dessert,  when  Soldevilla,  Re- 
novales'  favorite  pupil,  came,  she  had  felt  indisposed  and 
had  disappeared  to  hide  her  eyes  swimming  with  tears 
and  her  breast  that  heaved  with  sobs. 

"She's  probably  upstairs,"  said  the  girl  with  a  sort  of 
indifference,  accustomed  to  these  outbreaks.  "Good-by, 
papa,  dear,  a  kiss.  Cotoner  and  Soldevilla  are  waiting 
for  you  in  the  studio.  Another  kiss.  Let  me  bite  you." 

And  after  fixing  her  little  teeth  gently  in  one  of  the 
master's  cheeks,  she  ran  out,  followed  by  Miss,  who  was 
already  puffing  in  anticipation  at  the  thought  of  the  tire- 
some walk. 

Renovales  remained  motionless  as  if  he  hesitated  to 
shake  off  the  atmosphere  of  affection  in  which  his  daugh- 
ter enveloped  him.  Milita  was  his,  wholly  his.  She  loved 
her  mother,  but  her  affection  was  cold  in  comparison  with 
the  ardent  passion  she  felt  for  him — that  vague,  instinc- 
tive preference  girls  feel  for  their  fathers  and  which  is, 
as  it  were,  a  forecast  of  the  worship  the  man  they  love 
will  later  inspire  in  them. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  looking  for  Josephina  to 


92  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

console  her,  but  after  a  brief  reflection,  he  gave  up  the 
idea.  It  probably  was  nothing ;  his  daughter  was  not  dis- 
turbed ;  a  sudden  fit  such  as  she  usually  had.  If  he  went 
upstairs  he  would  run  the  risk  of  an  unpleasant  scene 
that  would  spoil  the  afternoon,  rob  him  of  his  desire  to 
work  and  banish  the  youthful  light-heartedness  that  filled 
him  after  his  luncheon  with  Tekli. 

He  turned  his  steps  towards  the  last  studio,  the  only 
one  that  deserved  the  name,  for  it  was  there  he  worked, 
and  he  saw  Cotoner  sitting  in  a  huge  armchair,  the  seat 
of  which  sagged  under  his  corpulent  frame,  with  his 
elbows  resting  on  the  oaken  arms,  his  waistcoat  unbut- 
toned to  relieve  his  well-filled  paunch,  his  head  sunk  be- 
tween his  shoulders,  his  face  red  and  sweating,  his  eyes 
half  closed  with  the  sweet  joy  of  digestion  in  that  com- 
fortable atmosphere  heated  by  a  huge  stove. 

Cotoner  was  getting  old;  his  mustache  was  white  and 
his  head  was  bald,  but  his  face  was  as  rosy  and  shining 
as  a  child's.  He  breathed  the  placidness  of  a  respectable 
old  bachelor  whose  only  love  is  for  good  living  and  who 
appreciates  the  digestive  sleepiness  of  the  boaconstrictor 
as  the  greatest  of  happiness. 

He  was  tired  of  living  in  Rome.  Commissions  were 
scarce.  The  Popes  lived  longer  than  the  Biblical  patri- 
archs. The  chromo  portraits  of  the  Pontiff  had  simply 
forced  him  out  of  business.  Besides,  he  was  old  and  the 
young  painters  who  came  to  Rome  did  not  know  him; 
they  were  poor  fellows  who  looked  on  him  as  a  clown, 
and  never  laid  aside  their  seriousness  except  to  make 
sport  of  him.  His  time  had  passed.  The  echoes  of 
Mariano's  triumphs  at  home  had  come  to  his  ears,  had 
determined  him  to  move  to  Madrid.  Life  was  the  same 
everywhere.  He  had  friends  in  Madrid,  too.  And  here 
he  had  continued  the  life  he  had  led  in  Rome,  without 
any  effort,  feeling  a  kind  of  longing  for  glory  in  that 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT/  93 


narrow  personality  which  had  made  him  a  mere  day- 
laborer  in  art,  as  if  his  relations  with  Renovales  im- 
posed on  him  the  duty  of  seeking  a  place  near  his  in  the 
world  of  painting. 

He  had  gone  back  to  landscapes,  never  winning  any 
greater  success  than  the  simple  admirations  of  wash- 
women and  brickmakers  who  gathered  around  his  easel 
in  the  suburbs  of  Madrid,  whispering  to  each  other  that 
the  gentleman  who  wore  on  his  lapel  the  variegated  but- 
ton of  his  numerous  Papal  Orders,  must  be  a  famous  old 
"buck,"  one  of  the  great  painters  the  papers  talked  about. 
Renovales  had  secured  for  him  two  honorable  mentions 
at  the  Exhibitions  and  after  this  victory,  shared  with  all 
the  young  chaps  who  were  just  beginning,  Cotoner  set- 
tled down  in  the  rut,  to  rest  forever,  counting  that  the 
mission  of  his  life  was  fulfilled. 

Life  in  Madrid  was  no  more  difficult  for  him  than  in 
Rome.  He  slept  at  the  house  of  a  priest  whom  he  had 
known  in  Italy,  and  had  accompanied  on  his  tours  as 
Papal  representative.  This  chaplain,  who  was  employed 
in  the  office  of  the  Rota,  considered  it  a  great  honor  to 
entertain  the  artist,  recalling  his  friendly  relations  with 
the  cardinals  and  believing  that  he  was  in  correspondence 
with  the  Pope  himself. 

They  had  agreed  on  a  sum  which  he  was  to  pay  for  his 
lodging,  but  the  priest  did  not  seem  to  be  in  any  hurry 
for  payment;  he  would  soon  give  him  a  commission  for 
a  painting  for  some  nuns  for  whom  he  was  confessor. 

The  eating  problem  offered  still  less  difficulty  for  Co- 
toner.  He  had  the  days  of  the  week  divided  among 
various  rich  families  noted  for  their  piety,  whom  he  had 
met  in  Rome  during  the  great  Spanish  pilgrimages.  They 
were  wealthy  miners  from  Bilbao,  gentlemen  farmers 
from  Andalusia,  old  marchionesses  who  thought  about 
God  a  great  deal,  but  continued  to  live  their  comfortable 


94  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

life  to  which  they  gave  a  serious  tone  by  the  respectable 
color  of  devotion. 

The  painter  felt  closely  attached  to  this  little  group; 
they  were  serious,  religious  and  they  ate  well.  Every- 
one called  him  "good  Cotoner."  The  ladies  smiled  with 
gratitude  when  he  presented  them  with  a  rosary  or  some 
other  article  of  devotion  brought  from  Rome.  If  they 
expressed  the  desire  of  obtaining  some  dispensation  from 
the  Vatican,  he  would  offer  to  write  to  "his  friend  the 
cardinal."  The  husbands,  glad  to  entertain  an  artist  so 
cheaply,  consulted  him  about  the  plan  for  a  new  chapel 
or  the  designs  for  an  altar,  and  on  their  saint's  day  they 
would  receive  with  a  condescending  mien  some  present 
from  Cotoner — a  "little  daub/'  a  landscape  painted  on  a 
piece  of  wood,  that  often  needed  an  explanation  before 
they  could  understand  what  it  was  meant  for. 

At  dinners  he  was  a  constant  source  of  amusement  for 
these  people  of  solid  principles  and  measured  words,  with 
his  stories  of  the  strange  doings  of  the  "Monsignori"  or 
the  "Eminences"  he  used  to  know  in  Rome.  They  lis- 
tened to  these  jokes  with  a  sort  of  unction,  however 
dubious  they  were,  seeing  that  they  came  from  such  re- 
spectable personages. 

When  the  round  of  invitations  was  interrupted  by  ill- 
ness or  absence,  and  Cotoner  lacked  a  place  to  dine,  he 
stayed  at  Renovales'  house  without  waiting  for -an  invi- 
tation. The  master  wanted  him  to  live  with  them,  but 
he  did  not  accept.  He  was  very  fond  of  the  family; 
Milita  played  with  him  as  if  he  were  an  old  dog, 
Josephina  felt  a  sort  of  affection  for  him,  because  his 
presence  reminded  her  of  the  good  old  days  in  Rome. 
But  Cotoner,  in  spite  of  this,  seemed  to  be  somewhat  re- 
luctant, divining  the  storms  that  darkened  the  master's 
life.  He  preferred  his  free  existence,  to  which  he  adapted 
himself  with  the  ease  of  a  parasite.  After  dinner  was 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  95 

over,  he  would  listen  to  the  weighty  discussions  between 
learned  priests  and  serious  old  church-goers,  nodding  his 
approval,  and  an  hour  later  he  would  be  jesting  impiously 
in  some  cafe  or  other  with  painters,  actors  and  journal- 
ists. He  knew  everybody;  he  only  needed  to  speak  to 
an  artist  twice  and  he  would  call  him  by  his  first  name 
and  swear  that  he  loved  and  admired  him  from  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart.  When  Renovales  came  into  the  studio, 
he  shook  oft"  his  drowsiness  and  stretched  out  his  short 
legs  so  that  he  could  touch  the  floor  and  get  out  of  the 
chair. 

"Did  they  tell  you,  Mariano?  A  magnificent  dish!  I 
made  them  an  Andalusian  pot-pourri !  They  were  tickled 
to  death  over  it!" 

He  was  enthusiastic  over  his  culinary  achievement  as 
if  all  his  merits  were  summed  up  in  this  skill.  After- 
wards, while  Renovales  was  handing  his  coat  and  hat  to 
the  servant  who  followed  him,  Cotoner  with  the  curiosity 
of  an  intimate  friend  who  wants  to  know  all  the  details 
of  his  idol's  life,  questioned  him  about  his  luncheon  with 
the  foreigner. 

Renovales  lay  down  on  a  divan  deep  as  a  niche,  be- 
tween two  bookcases  and  lined  with  piles  of  cushions. 
As  they  spoke  of  Tekli,  they  recalled  friends  in  Rome, 
painters  of  different  nationalities  who  twenty  years  be- 
fore had  walked  with  their  heads  high,  following  the 
star  of  hope  as  if  they  were  hypnotized.  Renovales,  in 
his  pride  in  his  strength,  incapable  of  hypocritical  mod- 
esty, declared  that  he  was  the  only  one  who  had  suc- 
ceeded. Poor  Tekli  was  a  professor ;  his  copy  of  Velas- 
quez amounted  to  nothing  more  than  the  work  of  a 
patient  cart  horse  in  art. 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Cotoner  doubtfully.  "Is  his 
work  so  poor?'* 

His  selfishness  kept  him  from  saying  a  word  against 


96  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT; 

anyone;  he  had  no  faith  in  criticism,  he  believed  blindly 
in  praise;  thereby  preserving  his  reputation  as  a  good 
fellow,  which  gave  him  the  entree  everywhere  and  made 
his  life  easy.  The  figure  of  the  Hungarian  was  fixed  in 
his  memory  and  made  him  think  of  a  series  of  luncheons 
before  he  left  Madrid. 

"Good  afternoon,  master." 

It  was  Soldevilla  who  came  out  from  behind  a  screen 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back  under  the  tail  of 
his  short  sack  coat,  his  head  in  the  air,  tortured  by  the 
excessive  height  of  his  stiff,  shining  collar,  throwing  out 
his  chest  so  as  to  show  off  better  his  velvet  waistcoat. 
His  thinness  and  his  small  stature  were  made  up  for  by 
the  length  of  his  blond  mustache  that  curled  around  his 
pink  little  nose  as  if  it  were  trying  to  reach  the  straight, 
scraggly  bangs  on  his  forehead.  This  Soldevilla  was 
Renovales'  favorite  pupil — "his  weakness"  Cotoner  called 
him.  The  master  had  fought  a  great  battle  to  win  him 
the  fellowship  at  Rome ;  afterward  he  had  given  him  the 
prize  at  several  exhibitions. 

He  looked  on  him  almost  as  a  son,  attracted  perhaps 
by  the  contrast  between  his  own  rough  strength  and  the 
weakness  of  that  artistic  dandy,  always  proper,  always 
amiable,  who  consulted  this  master  about  everything, 
even  if  afterwards  he  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  his 
advice.  When  he  criticized  his  fellow  painters,  he  did  it 
with  a  venomous  suavity,  with  a  feminine  finesse.  Re- 
novales laughed  at  his  appearance  and  his  habits  and 
Cotoner  joined  in.  He  was  like  china,  always  shining; 
you  could  not  find  the  least  speck  of  dust  on  him;  you 
were  sure  he  slept  in  a  cupboard.  These  present-day 
painters!  The  two  old  artists  recalled  the  disorder  of 
their  youth,  their  Bohemian  carelessness,  with  long 
beards  and  huge  hats,  all  their  odd  extravagances  to  dis- 
tinguish them  from  the  rest  of  men,  forming  a  world  by 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  97 

themselves.  They  felt  out  of  humor  with  these  painters 
of  the  last  batch — proper,  prudent,  incapable  of  doing 
anything  absurd,  copying  the  fashions  of  the  idle  and 
presenting  the  appearance  of  State  functionaries,  clerks, 
who  wielded  the  brush. 

His  greeting  over,  Soldevilla  fairly  overwhelmed  the 
master  with  his  effusive  praise.  He  had  been  admiring 
the  portrait  of  the  Countess  of  Alberca. 

"A  perfect  marvel,  master.  The  best  thing  you  have 
painted,  and  it's  only  half  done,  too." 

This  praise  aroused  Renovales.  He  got  up,  shoved 
aside  the  screen  and  pulled  out  an  easel  that  held  a 
large  canvas,  until  it  was  opposite  the  light  that  came  in 
through  the  wide  window. 

On  a  gray  background  stood  a  woman  dressed  in  white, 
with  that  majesty  of  beauty  that  is  accustomed  to  ad- 
miration. The  aigrette  of  feathers  and  diamonds  seemed 
to  tremble  on  her  tawny  yellow  curls,  the  curve  of  her 
breasts  was  outlined  through  the  lace  of  her  low-necked 
gown,  her  gloves  reached  above  her  elbows,  in  one  of  her 
hands  she  held  a  costly  fan,  in  the  other,  a  dark  cloak, 
lined  with  flame-colored  satin,  that  slipped  from  her  bare 
shoulders,  on  the  point  of  falling.  The  lower  part  of 
the  figure  was  merely  outlined  in  charcoal  on  the  white 
canvas.  The  head,  almost  finished,  seemed  to  look  at  the 
three  men  with  its  proud  eyes,  cold,  but  with  a  false 
coldness  that  bespoke  a  hidden  passion  within,  a  dead 
volcano  that  might  come  to  life  at  any  moment. 

She  was  a  tall,  stately  woman,  with  a  charming,  well- 
proportioned  figure,  who  seemed  to  keep  the  freshness  of 
youth,  thanks  to  the  healthy,  comfortable  life  she  led. 
The  corners  of  her  eyes  were  narrowed  with  a  tired  fold. 

Cotoner  looked  at  her  from  his  seat  with  chaste  calm- 
ness, commenting  tranquilly  on  her  beauty,  feeling  above 
temptation. 


98  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"It's  she,  you've  caught  her,  Mariano.  She  has  been 
a  great  woman." 

Renovales  appeared  offended  at  this  comment. 

"She  is,"  he  said  with  a  sort  of  hostility.  "She  is 
still." 

Cotoner  could  not  argue  with  his  idol  and  he  hastened 
to  correct  himself. 

"She  is  a  charming  woman,  very  attractive,  yes  sir, 
and  very  stylish.  They  say  she  is  talented  and  cannot 
bear  to  let  men  who  worship  her  suffer.  She  has  cer- 
tainly enjoyed  life." 

Renovales  began  to  bristle  again,  as  if  these  words 
cut  him. 

"Nonsense !  lies,  calumnies !"  he  said  angrily.  "Inven- 
tions of  some  young  fellows  who  spread  these  disgrace- 
ful reports  because  they  were  rejected." 

Cotoner  began  to  explain  away  what  he  had  said.  He 
did  not  know  anything,  he  had  heard  it.  The  ladies  at 
whose  houses  he  dined  spoke  ill  of  the  Alberca  woman, 
but  perhaps  it  was  merely  woman's  gossip.  There  was 
a  moment  of  silence  and  Renovales,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
change  the  subject  of  conversation,  turned  to  Solde- 
villa. 

"And  you,  aren't  you  painting  any  longer?  I  always 
find  you  here  in  working  hours." 

He  smiled  somewhat  knowingly  as  he  said  this,  while 
the  youth  blushed  and  tried  to  make  excuses.  He  was 
working  hard,  but  every  day  he  felt  the  need  of  drop- 
ping into  his  master's  studio  for  a  minute  before  he  went 
to  his  own. 

It  was  a  habit  he  had  formed  when  he  was  a  beginner, 
in  that  period,  the  best  in  his  life,  when  he  studied  beside 
the  great  painter  in  a  studio  far  less  sumptuous  than  this. 

"And  Milita  ?  Did  you  see  her  ?"  continued  Renovales 
with  a  good-natured  smile  that  had  not  lost  its  playful- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  99 

ness.  "Didn't  she  'kid'  you,  for  wearing  that  dazzling 
new  tie?" 

Soldevilla  smiled  too.  He  had  been  in  the  dining-room 
with  Dona  Josephina  and  Milita  and  the  latter  had  made 
fun  of  him  as  usual.  But  she  did  not  mean  anything ;  the 
master  knew  that  Milita  and  he  treated  each  other  like 
brother  and  sister. 

More  than  once  when  she  was  a  little  tot  and  he  a 
lad,  he  had  acted  as  her  horse,  trotting  around  the  old 
studio  with  the  little  scamp  on  his  back,  pulling  his  hair 
and  pounding  him  with  her  tiny  fists. 

"She's  very  cute,"  interrupted  Cotoner.  "She  is  the 
most  attractive,  the  best  girl  I  know." 

"And  the  unequaled  Lopez  de  Sosa  ?"  asked  the  master, 
once  more  in  a  playful  tone.  "Didn't  that  'chauffeur* 
that  drives  us  crazy  with  his  automobiles  come  to-day?" 

Soldevilla's  smile  disappeared.  He  grew  pale  and  his 
eyes  flashed  spitefully.  No,  he  had  not  seen  the  gentle- 
man. According  to  the  ladies,  he  was  busy  repairing  an 
automobile  that  had  broken  down  on  the  Pardo  road. 
And  as  if  the  recollection  of  this  friend  of  the  family 
was  trying  for  him  and  he  wished  to  avoid  any  further 
allusions  to  him,  he  said  "good-by"  to  the  master.  He 
was  going  to  work;  he  must  take  advantage  of  the  two 
hours  of  sunlight  that  were  left.  But  before  he  went 
out  he  stopped  to  say  another  word  in  praise  of  the 
portrait  of  the  countess. 

The  two  friends  remained  alone  for  a  long  while  in 
silence.  Renovales,  buried  in  the  shadow  of  that  niche 
of  Persian  stuffs  with  which  his  divan  was  canopied, 
gazed  at  the  picture. 

"Is  she  going  to  come  to-day?"  asked  Cotoner,  pointing 
to  the  canvas. 

Renovales  shrugged  his  shoulders.    To-day  or  the  next 


100  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT, 

day;  it  was  impossible  to  do  any  serious  work  with  that 
woman. 

He  expected  her  that  afternoon ;  but  he  would  not  feel 
surprised  if  she  failed  to  keep  her  appointment.  For 
nearly  a  month  he  had  been  unable  to  get  in  two  days 
in  succession.  She  was  always  engaged;  she  was  presi- 
dent of  societies  for  the  education  and  emancipation  of 
woman;  she  was  constantly  planning  festivals  and  raf- 
fles ;  the  activity  of  a  tired  woman  of  society,  the  flutter- 
ing of  a  wild  bird  that  made  her  want  to  be  everywhere 
at  the  same  time,  without  the  will  to  withdraw  when  once 
she  was  started  in  the  current  of  feminine  excitement. 
Suddenly  the  painter  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  por- 
trait gave  a  cry  of  enthusiasm. 

''What  a  woman,  Pepe !    What  a  woman  to  paint !" 

His  eyes  seemed  to  lay  bare  the  beauty  that  stood  on 
the  canvas  in  all  its  aristocratic  grandeur.  They  strove 
to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  that  covering  of  lace  and 
silk,  to  see  the  color  and  the  lines  of  the  form  that  was 
hardly  revealed  through  the  gown.  This  mental  recon* 
struction  was  helped  by  the  bare  shoulders  and  the 
curve  of  her  breasts  that  seemed  to  tremble  at  the  edge 
of  her  dress,  separated  by  a  line  of  soft  shadow. 

"That's  just  what  I  told  your  wife/'  said  the  Bohemian 
naively.  "If  you  paint  beautiful  women,  like  the  coun- 
tess, it  is  merely  for  the  sake  of  painting  them  and  not 
that  you  would  think  of  seeing  in  them  anything  more 
than  a  model." 

"Aha !  So  my  wife  has  been  talking  to  you  about  that !" 

Cotoner  hastened  to  set  his  mind  at  ease,  fearing  his 
digestion  might  be  disturbed.  A  mere  trifle,  nervousness 
on  the  part  of  poor  Josephina,  who  saw  the  dark  side  of 
everything  in  her  illness. 

She  had  referred  during  the  luncheon  to  the  Albercg, 
woman  and  her  portrait.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  very 


WOMAN  TRIUMPH A-NT    \J\  101 

fond  of  her,  in  spite  of  tfoe-'fact.tnit  lstf/4iftd^  V>eeh  her 
companion  in  boarding-school.  She  felt  as  other  women 
did ;  the  countess  was  an  enemy,  who  inspired  them  with 
fear.  But  he  had  calmed  her  and  finally  succeeded  in 
making  her  smile  faintly.  There  was  no  use  in  talking 
about  that  any  longer. 

But  Renovales  did  not  share  his  friend's  optimism. 
He  was  well  aware  of  his  wife's  state  of  mind ;  he  under- 
stood now  the  motive  that  had  made  her  flee  from  the 
table,  to  take  refuge  upstairs  and  to  weep  and  long  for 
death.  She  hated  Concha  as  she  did  all  the  women  who 
entered  his  studio.  But  this  impression  of  sadness  did 
not  last  very  long  in  the  painter;  he  was  used  to  his 
wife's  susceptibility.  Besides,  the  consciousness  of  his 
faithfulness  calmed  him.  His  conscience  was  clean,  and 
Josephina  might  believe  what  she  would.  It  would  only 
be  one  more  injustice  and  he  was  resigned  to  endure  his 
slavery  without  complaint. 

In  order  to  forget  his  trouble,  he  began  to  talk  about 
painting.  The  recollection  of  his  conversation  with  Tekli 
enlivened  him,  for  Tekli  had  been  traveling  all  over 
Europe  and  was  well  acquainted  with  what  the  most 
famous  masters  were  thinking  and  painting. 

"I'm  getting  old,  Cotoner.  Did  you  think  I  didn't 
know  it?  No,  don't  protest.  I  know  that  I  am  not  old; 
forty-three  years.  I  mean  that  I  have  lost  my  gait  and 
cannot  get  started.  It's  a  long  time  since  I  have  done 
anything  new ;  I  always  strike  the  same  note.  You  know 
that  some  people,  envious  of  my  reputation  are  always 
throwing  that  defect  in  my  face,  like  a  vile  insult." 

And  the  painter,  with  the  selfishness  of  great  artists 
who  always  think  that  they  are  neglected  and  the  world 
begrudges  them  their  glory,  complained  at  the  slavery 
that  was  imposed  upon  him  by  his  good  fortune.  Making 
money!  What  a  calamity  for  art!  If  the  world  were 


102  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

go  verted;  by  ;ln$  .commotu  sense,  artists  with  talent  would 
be  supported  by  the  State,  which  would  generously  pro- 
vide for  all  their  needs  and  whims.  There  would  be  no 
need  of  bothering  about  making  a  living.  "Paint  what 
you  want  to,  and  as  you  please/'  Then  great  things 
would  be  done  and  art  would  advance  with  giant  strides, 
not  constrained  to  debase  itself  by  flattering  public  vul- 
garity and  the  ignorance  of  the  rich.  But  now,  to  be  a 
celebrated  painter  it  was  necessary  to  make  money  and 
this  could  not  be  done  except  by  portraits,  opening  a  shop, 
painting  the  first  one  that  appeared,  without  the  right  of 
choice.  Accursed  painting!  In  writing,  poverty  was  a 
merit.  It  stood  for  truth  and  honesty.  But  the  painter 
must  be  rich,  his  talent  was  judged  by  his  profits.  The 
fame  of  his  pictures  was  connected  with  the  idea  of 
thousands  of  dollars.  When  people  talked  about  his 
work  they  always  said,  "He's  making  such  and  such  a 
sum  of  money,"  and  to  keep  up  this  wealth,  the  indis- 
pensable companion  of  his  glory,  he  had  to  paint  by  the 
job,  cringing  before  the  vulgar  throng  that  pays. 

Renovales  walked  excitedly  around  the  portrait.  Some- 
times this  laborer's  work  was  tolerable,  when  he  was 
painting  beautiful  women  and  men  whose  faces  had  the 
light  of  intelligence.  But  the  vulgar  politicians,  the  rich 
men  that  looked  like  porters,  the  stout  dames  with  dead 
faces  that  he  had  to  paint!  When  he  let  his  love  for 
truth  overcome  him  and  copied  the  model  as  he  saw  it, 
he  won  another  enemy,  who  paid  the  bill  grumblingly  and 
went  away  to  tell  everyone  that  Renovales  was  not  so 
great  as  people  thought.  To  avoid  this  he  lied  in  his 
painting,  having  recourse  to  the  methods  employed  by 
other  mediocre  artists  and  this  base  procedure  tormented 
his  conscience,  as  if  he  were  robbing  his  inferiors  who 
deserved  respect  for  the  very  reason  that  they  were 
less  endowed  for  artistic  production  than  he. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  103 

"Besides,  that  is  not  painting,  the  whole  of  painting. 
We  think  we  are  artists  because  we  can  reproduce  a  face, 
and  the  face  is  only  a  part  of  the  body.  We  tremble 
with  fear  at  the  thought  of  the  nude.  We  have  forgotten 
it.  We  speak  of  it  with  respect  and  fear,  as  we  would 
of  something  religious,  worthy  of  worship,  but  some- 
thing we  never  see  close  at  hand.  A  large  part  of  our 
talent  is  the  talent  of  a  dry-goods  clerk.  Cloth,  nothing 
but  cloth ;  garments.  The  body  must  be  carefully  wrap- 
ped up  or  we  flee  from  it  as  from  a  danger." 

He  ceased  his  nervous  walking  to  and  fro  and  stopped 
in  front  of  the  picture,  fixing  his  gaze  on  it. 

"Imagine,  Pepe,"  he  said  in  an  undertone,  looking  first 
instinctively  toward  the  door,  with  that  eternal  fear  of 
being  heard  by  his  wife  in  the  midst  of  his  artistic  rap- 
tures. "Imagine,  if  that  woman  would  undress;  if  I 
could  paint  her  as  she  certainly  is." 

Cotoner  burst  into  laughter  with  a  look  like  a  knavish 
friar. 

"Wonderful,  Mariano,  a  masterpiece.  But  she  won't. 
I'm  sure  she  would  refuse  to  undress,  though  I  admit  she 
isn't  always  particular." 

Renovales  shook  his  fists  in  protest. 

"And  why  won't  they  ?  What  a  rut !    What  vulgarity !" 

In  his  artistic  selfishness  he  fancied  that  the  world  had 
been  created  without  any  other  purpose  than  supporting 
painters,  the  rest  of  humanity  was  made  to  serve  them  as 
models,  and  he  was  shocked  at  this  incomprehensible 
modesty.  Ah,  where  could  they  find  now  the  beauties  of 
Greece,  the  calm  models  of  sculptors,  the  pale  Venetian 
ladies  painted  by  Titian,  the  graceful  Flemish  women  of 
Rubens,  and  the  dainty,  sprightly  beauties  of  Goya? 
Beauty  was  eclipsed  forever  behind  the  veils  of  hypoc- 
risy and  false  modesty.  Women  had  one  lover  to-day, 
another  to-morrow  and  still  they  blushed  at  recalling  the 


104  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

woman  of  other  times,  far  more  pure  than  they>  ~^ho  did 
not  hesitate  to  reveal  to  the  public  admiration  the  perfect 
work  of  God,  the  chastity  of  the  nude. 

Renovales  lay  down  on  the  divan  again,  and  in  the  twi- 
light he  talked  confidentially  with  Cotoner  in  a  subdued 
voice,  sometimes  looking  toward  the  door  as  if  he  feared 
being  overheard. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  dreaming  of  a  masterpiece. 
He  had  it  in  his  imagination  complete  even  to  the  least 
details.  He  saw  it,  closing  his  eyes,  just  at  it  would  be, 
if  he  ever  succeeded  in  painting  it.  It  was  Phryne,  the 
famous  beauty  of  Athens,  appearing  naked  before  the 
crowd  of  pilgrims  on  the  beach  of  Delphi.  All  the  suffer- 
ing humanity  of  Greece  walked  on  the  shore  of  the  sea 
toward  the  famous  temple,  seeking  divine  intervention 
for  the  relief  of  their  ills,  cripples  with  distorted  limbs, 
repulsive  lepers,  men  swollen  with  dropsy,  pale,  suffer- 
ing women,  trembling  old  men,  youths  disfigured  in  hid- 
eous expressions,  withered  arms  like  bare  bones,  shape- 
less elephant  legs,  all  the  phases  of  a  perverted  Nature, 
the  piteous,  desperate  expressions  of  human  pain.  When 
they  see  on  the  beach  Phryne,  the  glory  of  Greece,  whose 
beauty  was  a  national  pride,  the  pilgrims  stop  and  gaze 
upon  her,  turning  their  backs  to  the  temple,  that  outlines 
its  marble  columns  in  the  background  of  the  parched 
mountains;  and  the  beautiful  woman,  filled  with  pity  by 
this  procession  of  suffering,  desires  to  brighten  their  sad- 
ness, to  cast  a  handful  of  health  and  beauty  among  their 
wretched  furrows,  and  tears  off  her  veils,  giving  them 
the  royal  alms  of  her  nakedness.  The  white,  radiant  body 
is  outlined  on  the  dark  blue  of  the  sea.  The  wind  scat- 
ters her  hair  like  golden  serpents  on  her  ivory  shoulders ; 
the  waves  that  die  at  her  feet,  toss  upon  her  stars  of  foam 
that  make  her  skin  tremble  with  the  caress  from  her  am- 
ber neck  down  to  her  rosy  feet.  The  wet  sand,  polished 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  105 

and  bright  as  a  mirror,  reproduces  the  sovereign  naked- 
ness, inverted  and  confused  in  serpentine  lines  that  take 
on  the  shimmer  of  the  rainbow  as  they  disappear.  And 
the  pilgrims,  on  their  knees,  in  the  ecstasy  of  worship, 
stretch  out  their  arms  toward  the  mortal  goddess,  be- 
lieving that  Beauty  and  eternal  Health  have  come  to 
meet  them. 

Renovales  sat  up  and  grasped  Cotoner's  arm  as  he  de- 
scribed his  future  picture,  and  his  friend  nodded  his  ap- 
proval gravely,  impressed  by  the  description. 

"Very  fine!     Sublime,  Mariano!" 

But  the  master  became  dejected  again  after  this  flash 
of  enthusiasm. 

The  task  was  very  difficult.  He  would  have  to  go  and 
take  up  quarters  on  the  shore  of  the  Mediterranean,  on 
some  secluded  beach  at  Valencia  or  in  Catalonia;  he 
would  have  to  build  a  cabin  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sand 
where  the  water  breaks  with  its  bright  reflections,  and 
take  woman  after  woman  there,  a  hundred  if  it  was 
necessary,  in  order  to  study  the  whiteness  of  their  skin 
against  the  blue  of  the  sea  and  sky,  until  he  found  the 
divine  body  of  the  Phryne  he  had  dreamed. 

"Very  difficult,"  murmured  Renovales.  "I  tell  you  it 
is  very  difficult.  There  are  so  many  obstacles  to  struggle 
against." 

Cotoner  leaned  forward  with  a  confidential  expression. 

"And  besides,  there's  the  mistress,"  he  said  in  a  quiet 
voice,  looking  at  the  door  with  a  sort  of  fear.  "I  don't 
believe  Josephina  would  be  very  much  pleased  with  this 
picture  and  its  pack  of  models." 

The  master  lowered  his  head. 

"If  you  only  knew,  Pepe!  If  you  could  see  the  life  I 
lead  every  day!" 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  Cotoner  hastened  to  say,  "or 
rather,  I  can  imagine.  Don't  tell  me  anything." 


106  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT, 

And  in  his  haste  to  avoid  the  sad  confidences  of  his 
friend,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  selfishness,  the  desire 
not  to  disturb  his  peaceful  calm  with  other  men's  sorrows 
that  excite  only  a  distant  interest. 

Renovales  spoke  after  a  long  silence.  He  often  won- 
dered whether  an  artist  ought  to  be  married  or  single. 
Other  men,  of  weak,  hesitating  character  needed  the 
support  of  a  comrade,  the  atmosphere  of  a  family. 

He  recalled  with  relish  the  first  few  months  of  his 
married  life ;  but  since  then  it  had  weighed  on  him  like  a 
chain.  He  did  not  deny  the  existence  of  love ;  he  needed 
the  sweet  company  of  a  woman  in  order  to  live,  but  with 
intermissions,  without  the  endless  imprisonment  of  com- 
mon life.  Artists  like  himself  ought  to  be  free,  he  was 
sure  of  it. 

"Oh,  Pepe,  if  I  had  only  stayed  like  you,  master  of 
my  time  and  my  work,  without  having  to  think  what  my 
family  will  say  if  they  see  me  painting  this  or  that,  what 
great  things  I  should  have  done !" 

The  old  man,  who  had  failed  in  all  his  tasks,  was  going 
to  say  something  when  the  door  of  the  studio  opened  and 
Renovales'  servant  came  in,  a  little  man  with  fat  red 
cheeks  and  a  high  voice  which,  according  to  Cotoner, 
sounded  like  the  messenger  of  a  monastery. 

"The  countess." 

Cotoner  jumped  out  of  his  armchair.  Those  models 
didn't  like  to  see  people  in  the  studio.  How  could  he  get 
out  ?  Renovales  helped  him  to  find  his  hat,  coat  and  cane, 
which  with  his  usual  carelessness  he  had  left  in  different 
corners  of  the  studio. 

The  master  pushed  him  out  of  a  door  that  led  into  the 
garden.  Then,  when  he  was  alone,  he  ran  to  an  old  Vene- 
tian mirror,  and  looked  at  himself  for  a  moment  in  its 
deep,  bluish  surface,  smoothing  his  curly  gray  hair 
with  his  fingers. 


V 


SHE  came  in  with,  a  great  rustling  of  silks  and  laces, 
her  least  step  accompanied  by  the  frou-frou  of  her  skirts, 
scattering  various  perfumes,  like  the  breath  of  an  exotic 
garden. 

"Good  afternoon,  mon  cher  maitre." 

As  she  looked  at  him  through  her  tortoise-shell  lor- 
gnette, hanging  from  a  gold  chain,  the  gray  amber  of  her 
eyes  took  on  an  insolent  stare  through  the  glasses,  a 
strange  expression,  half  caressing,  half  mocking. 

He  must  pardon  her  for  being  so  late.  She  was  sorry 
for  her  lack  of  attention,  but  she  was  the  busiest  woman 
in  Madrid.  The  things  she  had  done  since  luncheon! 
Signing  and  examining  papers  with  the  secretary  of  the 
''Women's  League,"  a  conference  with  the  carpenter  and 
the  foreman  (two  rough  fellows  who  fairly  devoured  her 
with  their  eyes),  who  had  charge  of  putting  up  the  booths 
for  the  great  fair  for  the  benefit  of  destitute  working 
women ;  a  call  on  the  president  of  the  Cabinet,  a  some- 
what dissolute  old  gentleman,  in  spite  of  his  gravity,  who 
received  her  with  the  airs  of  an  old-fashioned  gallant, 
kissing  her  hand,  as  they  used  to  in  a  minuet.' 

"We  have  lost  the  afternoon,  haven't  we,  maitre? 
There's  hardly  sun  enough  to  work  by  now.  Besides,  I 
didn't  bring  my  maid  to  help  me." 

She  pointed  with  her  lorgnette  to  the  door  of  an  alcove 
that  served  as  a  dressing-room  for  the  models  and  where 
she  kept  the  evening  gown  and  the  flame-colored  cloak  in 
which  he  was  painting  her. 

Renovales,  after  looking  furtively  at  the  entrance  of 

107 


108  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  studio,  assumed  an  arrogant  air  of  swaggering  gal- 
lantry, such  as  he  used  to  have  in  his  youth  in  Rome, 
free  and  obstreperous. 

"You  needn't  give  up  on  that  account.  If  you  will  let 
me,  I'll  act  as  maid  for  you." 

The  countess  began  to  laugh  loudly,  throwing  back  her 
head  and  shoulders,  showing  her  white  throat  that  shook 
with  merriment. 

"Oh,  what  a  good  joke !  And  how  daring  the  master  is 
getting.  You  don't  know  anything  about  such  things, 
Renovales.  All  you  can  do  is  paint.  You  are  not  in 
practice." 

And  in  her  accent  of  subtle  irony,  there  was  something 
like  pity  for  the  artist,  removed  from  mundane  things, 
whose  conjugal  virtue  everyone  knew.  This  seemed  to 
offend  him  for  he  spoke  to  the  countess  very  sharply  as 
he  picked  up  the  palette  and  prepared  the  colors.  There 
was  no  need  of  changing  her  dress ;  he  would  make  use 
of  what  little  daylight  remained  to  work  on  the  head. 

Concha  took  off  her  hat  and  then,  before  the  same 
Venetian  mirror  in  which  the  painter  had  looked  at  him- 
self, began  to  touch  up  her  hair.  Her  arms  curved 
around  her  golden  head,  while  Renovales  contemplated 
the  grace  of  her  back,  seeing  at  the  same  time  her  face 
and  breast  in  the  glass.  She  hummed  as  she  arranged 
her  hair,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  their  own  reflection,  not 
letting  anything  distract  her  in  this  important  operation. 

That  brilliant,  striking  golden  hair  was  probably 
bleached.  The  painter  was  sure  of  it,  but  it  did  not  seem 
less  beautiful  to  him  on  that  account.  The  beauties  of 
Venice  in  the  olden  times  used  to  dye  their  hair. 

The  countess  sat  down  in  an  armchair,  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  easel.  She  felt  tired  and  as  long  as  he 
was  not  going  to  paint  anything  but  her  face,  he  would 
not  be  so  cruel  as  to  make  her  stand,  as  he  did  on  days  of 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT,  109 

real  sittings.  Renovates  answered  with  monosyllables 
and  shrugs  of  his  shoulders.  That  was  all  right — for 
what  they  were  going  to  do.  An  afternoon  lost.  He 
would  limit  himself  to  working  on  her  hair  and  her  fore- 
head. She  might  take  it  easy,  looking  anywhere  she 
wanted  to. 

The  master  did  not  feel  any  desire  to  work  either.  A 
dull  anger  disturbed  him ;  he  was  irritated  by  the  ironical 
accent  of  the  countess  who  saw  in  him  a  man  different 
from  other  men,  a  strange  being  who  was  incapable  of 
acting  like  the  insipid  young  men  who  formed  her  court 
and  many  of  whom,  according  to  common  gossip,  were 
her  lovers.  A  strange  woman,  provoking  and  cold !  He 
felt  like  falling  on  her,  in  his  rage  at  her  offence,  and 
beating  her  with  the  same  scorn  that  he  would  a  low 
woman,  to  make  her  feel  his  manly  superiority. 

Of  all  the  ladies  whose  pictures  he  had  painted,  none 
had  disturbed  his  artistic  calm  as  she  had.  He  felt  at- 
tracted by  her  mad  jesting,  by  her  almost  childish  levity, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  hated  her  for  the  pitying  air 
with  which  she  treated  him.  For  her  he  was  a  good  fel- 
low, but  very  commonplace,  who  by  some  rare  caprice 
of  Nature  possessed  the  gift  of  painting  well. 

Renovales  returned  this  scorn  by  insulting  her  men- 
tally. That  Countess  of  Alberca  was  a  fine  one.  No 
wonder  people  talked  about  her.  Perhaps  when  she  ap- 
peared in  his  studio,  always  in  a  hurry  and  out  of  breath, 
she  came  from  a  private  interview  with  some  one  of  those 
young  bloods  that  hung  around  her,  attracted  by  her  still 
fresh,  alluring  maturity. 

But  if  Concha  spoke  to  him  with  her  easy  freedom, 
telling  him  of  the  sadness  she  said  she  felt  and  allowing 
herself  to  confide  in  him,  as  if  they  were  united  by  a  long 
standing  friendship,  that  was  enough  to  make  the  master 
change  his  thoughts  immediately.  She  was  a  superior 


110  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

woman  of  ideals,  condemned  to  live  in  a  depressing  aris- 
tocratic atmosphere.  All  the  gossip  about  her  was  a 
calumny,  a  lie  forged  by  envious  people.  She  ought  to 
be  the  companion  of  a  superior  man,  of  an  artist. 

Renovales  knew  her  history;  he  was  proud  of  the 
friendly  confidence  she  had  had  in  him.  She  was  the 
only  daughter  of  a  distinguished  gentleman,  a  solemn 
jurist,  and  a  violent  Conservative,  a  minister  in  the  most 
reactionary  cabinets  of  the  reign  of  Isabel  II.  She  had 
been  educated  at  the  same  school  as  Josephina,  who  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  Concha  was  four  years  her  senior, 
retained  a  vivid  recollection  of  her  lively  companion. 
"For  mischief  and  deviltry  you  can't  beat  Conchita 
Salazar."  It  was  thus  that  Renovales  heard  her  name 
for  the  first  time.  Then  when  the  artist  and  his  wife  had 
moved  from  Venice  to  Madrid,  he  learned  that  she  had 
changed  her  name  to  that  of  the  Countess  of  Alberca 
by  marrying  a  man  who  might  have  been  her  father. 

He  was  an  old  courtier  who  performed  his  duties  as  a 
grandee  of  Spain  with  great  conscientiousness,  proud  of 
his  slavery  to  the  royal  family.  His  ambition  was  to 
belong  to  all  the  honorable  orders  of  Europe  and  as  soon 
as  he  was  named  to  one  of  them,  he  had  his  picture 
painted,  covered  with  scarfs  and  crosses,  wearing  the 
uniform  of  one  of  the  traditional  military  Orders.  His 
wife  laughed  to  see  him,  so  little,  bald  and  solemn,  with 
high  boots,  a  dangling  sword,  his  breast  covered  with 
trinkets,  a  white  plumed  helmet  resting  in  his  lap. 

During  the  life  of  isolation  and  privation  with  which 
Renovales  struggled  so  courageously,  the  papers  brought 
to  the  artist's  wretched  house  the  echoes  of  the  triumphs 
of  the  "fair  Countess  of  Alberca."  Her  name  appeared 
in  the  first  line  of  every  account  of  an  aristocratic  func- 
tion. Besides,  they  called  her  "enlightened,"  and  talked 
about  her  literary  culture,  her  classic  education  which  she 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  111 

owed  to  Her  "illustrious  father,"  now  dead.  And  with 
this  public  news  there  reached  the  artist  on  the  whisper- 
ing wings  of  Madrid  gossip  other  tales  that  represented 
the  Countess  of  Alberca  as  consoling  herself  merrily  for 
the  mistake  she  had  made  in  marrying  an  old  man. 

At  Court,  they  had  taken  her  name  from  the  lists,  as  a 
result  of  this  reputation.  Her  husband  took  part  at  all 
the  royal  functions,  for  he  did  not  have  a  chance  every 
day  to  show  off  his  load  of  honorary  hardware,  but  she 
stayed  at  home,  loathing  these  ceremonious  affairs.  Re- 
novales  had  often  heard  her  declare,  dressed  luxuriously 
and  wearing  costly  jewels  in  her  ears  and  on  her  breast, 
that  she  laughed  at  his  set,  that  she  was  on  the  inside, 
she  was  an  anarchist !  And  he  laughed  as  he  heard  her, 
just  as  all  men  laughed  at  what  they  called  the  "ways" 
of  the  Alberca  woman. 

When  Renovales  won  success  and,  as  a  famous  master, 
returned  to  those  drawing  rooms  through  which  he  had 
passed  in  his  youth,  he  felt  the  attraction  of  the  countess 
who  in  her  character  as  a  "woman  of  intellect,"  insisted 
on  gathering  celebrated  men  about  her.  Josephina  did 
not  accompany  him  in  this  return  to  society.  She  felt  ill ; 
contact  with  the  same  people  in  the  same  places  tired  her ; 
she  lacked  the  strength  to  undertake  even  the  trips  her 
doctors  urged  upon  her. 

The  countess  enrolled  the  painter  in  her  following,  ap- 
pearing offended  when  he  failed  to  present  himself  at 
her  house  on  the  afternoons  on  which  she  received  her 
friends.  What  ingratitude  to  show  to  such  a  fervent  ad- 
mirer !  How  she  liked  to  exhibit  him  before  her  friends, 
as  if  he  were  a  new  jewel!  "The  painter  Renovales,  the 
famous  master." 

At  one  of  these  afternoon  receptions,  the  count  spoke 
to  Renovales  with  the  serious  air  of  a  man  who  is 
crushed  beneath  his  worldly  honors. 


112  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT1 

"Concha  wants  a  portrait  done  by  you,  and  I  like  to 
please  her  in  every  way.  You  can  say  when  to  begin. 
She  is  afraid  to  propose  it  to  you  and  has  commissioned 
me  to  do  it.  I  know  that  your  work  is  better  than  that 
of  other  painters.  Paint  her  well,  so  that  she  may  be 
pleased." 

And  noticing  that  Renovales  seemed  rather  offended  at 
his  patronizing  familiarity,  he  added  as  if  he  were  doing 
him  another  favor, 

"If  you  have  success  with  Concha,  you  may  paint  my 
picture  afterward.  I  am  only  waiting  for  the  Grand 
Chrysanthemum  of  Japan.  At  the  Government  offices 
they  tell  me  the  titles  will  come  one  of  these  days." 

Renovales  began  the  countess's  portrait.  The  task  was 
prolonged  by  that  rattle-brained  woman  who  always  came 
late,  alleging  that  she  had  been  busy.  Many  days  the 
artist  did  not  take  a  stroke  with  his  brush ;  they  spent  the 
time  chatting.  At  other  times  the  master  listened  in 
silence  while  she  with  her  ceaseless  volubility  made  fun  of 
her  friends  and  related  their  secret  defects,  their  most 
intimate  habits,  their  mysterious  amours,  with  a  kind  of 
relish,  as  if  all  women  were  her  enemies.  In  the  midst  of 
one  of  these  confidential  talks,  she  stopped  and  said  with 
a  shy  expression  and  an  ironical  accent: 

"But  I  am  probably  shocking  you,  Mariano.  You,  who 
are  a  good  husband,  a  staunch  family-man." 

Renovales  felt  tempted  to  choke  her.  She  was  making 
fun  of  him;  she  looked  on  him  as  a  man  different  from, 
the  rest  of  men,  a  sort  of  monk  of  painting.  Eager  to 
wound  her,  to  return  the  blow,  he  interrupted  once  bru- 
tally in  the  midst  of  her  merciless  gossip. 

"Well,  they  talk  about  you,  too,  Concha.  They  say 
things  that  wouldn't  be  very  pleasing  to  the  count." 

He  expected  an  outburst  of  anger,  a  protest,  and  all 
that  resounded  in  the  silence  of  the  studio  was  a  merry, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  113 

reckless  laugh  that  lasted  a  long  time,  stopping  occa- 
sionally, only  to  begin  again.  Then  she  grew  pensive, 
with  the  gentle  sadness  of  women  who  are  "misunder- 
stood." She  was  very  unhappy.  She  could  tell  him 
everything  because  he  was  a  good  friend.  She  had  mar- 
ried when  she  was  still  a  child ;  a  terrible  mistake.  There 
was  something  else  in  the  world  besides  the  glare  of  for- 
tune, the  splendor  of  luxury  and  that  count's  coronet, 
which  had  stirred  her  school-girl's  mind. 

"We  have  the  right  to  a  little  love,  and  if  not  love,  to  a 
little  joy.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mariano?" 

Of  course  he  thought  so.  And  he  declared  it  in  such 
a  way,  looking  at  Concha  with  alarming  eyes,  that  she 
finally  laughed  at  his  frankness  and  threatened  him  with 
her  finger. 

"Take  care,  master.  Don't  forget  that  Josephina  is 
my  friend  and  if  you  go  astray,  I'll  tell  her  everything." 

Renovales  was  irritated  at  her  disposition,  always  rest- 
less and  capricious  as  a  bird's,  quite  as  likely  to  sit  down 
beside  him  in  warm  intimacy  as  to  flit  away  with  tor- 
menting banter. 

Sometimes  she  was  aggressive,  teasing  the  artist  from 
her  very  first  words,  as  had  just  happened  that  afternoon. 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time — he,  painting  with 
an  absent-minded  air,  she  watching  the  movement  of  the 
brush,  buried  in  an  armchair  in  the  sweet  calm  of  rest. 

But  the  Alberca  woman  was  incapable  of  remaining 
silent  long.  Little  by  little  her  usual  chatter  began,  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  the  painter's  silence,  talking  to  relieve 
the  convent-like  stillness  of  the  studio  with  her  words 
and  laughter. 

The  painter  heard  the  story  of  her  labors  as  president 
of  the  " Women's  League,"  of  the  great  things  she  meant 
to  do  in  the  holy  undertaking  for  the  emancipation  of  the 
sex.  And,  in  passing,  led  on  by  her  desire  of  ridiculing 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT* 

all  women,  she  gaily  made  sport  of  her  co-workers  in 
the  great  project;  unknown  literary  women,  school  teach- 
ers, whose  lives  were  embittered  by  their  ugliness,  paint- 
ers of  flowers  and  doves,  a  throng  of  poor  women  with 
extravagant  hats  and  clothes  that  looked  as  though  they 
were  hung  on  a  bean-pole;  feminine  Bohemians,  rebel- 
lious and  rabid  against  their  lot,  who  were  proud  to  have 
her  as  their  leader  and  who  made  it  a  point  to  call  her 
"Countess"  in  sonorous  tones  at  every  other  word,  in 
order  to  flatter  themselves  with  the  distinction  of  this 
friendship.  The  Alberca  woman  was  greatly  amused  at 
her  following  of  admirers;  she  laughed  at  their  intoler- 
ance and  their  proposals. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  it  is/'  said  Renovales  breaking  his 
long  silence.  "You  want  to  annihilate  us,  to  reign  over 
man,  whom  you  hate." 

The  countess  laughed  at  the  recollection  of  the  fierce 
feminism  of  some  of  her  acolytes.  As  most  of  them 
were  homely,  they  hated  feminine  beauty  as  a  sign  of 
weakness.  They  wanted  the  woman  of  the  future  to  be 
without  hips,  without  breasts,  straight,  bony,  muscular, 
fitted  for  all  sorts  of  manual  labor,  free  from  the  slavery 
of  love  and  reproduction.  "Down  with  feminine  fat !" 

"What  a  frightful  idea!  Don't  you  think  so,  Ma- 
riano?" she  continued.  "Woman,  straight  in  front  and 
straight  behind,  with  her  hair  cut  short  and  her  hands 
hardened,  competing  with  men  in  all  sorts  of  struggles ! 
And  they  call  that  emancipation !  I  know  what  men  are ; 
if  they  saw  us  looking  like  that,  in  a  few  days  they  would 
be  beating  us." 

No,  she  was  not  one  of  them.  She  wanted  to  see  a 
woman  triumph,  but  by  increasing  still  more  her  charm 
and  her  fascination.  If  they  took  away  her  beauty  what 
would  she  have  left  ?  She  wanted  her  to  be  man's  equal 
in  intelligence,  his  superior  by  the  magic  of  her  beauty. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  115 

"I  don't  hate  men,  Mariano,  I  am  very  much  a  woman, 
and  I  like  them.  What's  the  use  of  denying  it?" 

"I  know  it,  Concha,  I  know  it,"  said  the  painter,  with 
a  malicious  meaning. 

"What  do  you  know?  Lies,  gossip  that  people  tell 
about  me  because  I  am  not  a  hypocrite  and  am  not  always 
wearing  a  gloomy  expression." 

And  led  on  by  that  desire  for  sympathy  that  all  women 
of  questionable  reputation  experience,  she  spoke  once 
more  of  her  unpleasant  situation.  Renovales  knew  the 
count,  a  good  man  in  spite  of  his  hobbies,  who  thought 
of  nothing  but  his  honorary  trinkets.  She  did  everything 
for  him,  watched  out  for  his  comfort,  but  he  was  nothing 
to  her.  She  lacked  the  most  important  thing — heart- 
love. 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  up,  with  a  longing  idealismi 
that  would  have  made  anyone  but  Renovales  smile. 

"In  this  situation,"  she  said  slowly,  looking  into  space, 
"it  isn't  strange  that  a  woman  seeks  happiness  where  she 
can  find  it.  But  I  am  very  unhappy,  Mariano;  I  don't 
know  what  love  is.  I  have  never  loved." 

Ah,  she  would  have  been  happy,  if  she  had  married  a 
man  who  was  her  superior.  To  be  the  companion  of  a 
great  artist,  of  a  scholar,  would  have  meant  happiness  for 
her.  The  men  who  gathered  around  her  in  her  drawing- 
rooms  were  younger  and  stronger  than  the  poor  count, 
but  mentally  they  were  even  weaker  than  he.  There 
was  no  such  thing  as  virtue  in  the  world,  she  admitted 
that ;  she  did  not  dare  to  lie  to  a  friend  like  the  painter. 
She  had  had  her  diversions,  her  whims,  just  as  many 
other  women  who  passed  as  impregnable  models  of 
virtue,  but  she  always  came  out  of  these  misdoings  with 
a  feeling  of  disenchantment  and  disgust.  She  knew  that 
love  was  a  reality  for  other  women,  but  she  had  never 
succeeded  in  finding  it. 


116  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Renovales  had  stopped  painting.  The  sunlight  no 
longer  came  in  through  the  wide  window.  The  panes 
took  on  a  violet  opaqueness.  Twilight  rilled  the  studio, 
and  in  the  shadows  there  shone  dimly  like  dying  sparks, 
here  the  corner  of  a  picture  frame,  beyond  the  old  gold 
of  an  embroidered  banner,  in  the  corners  the  pummel  of 
a  sword,  the  pearl  inlay  of  a  cabinet. 

The  painter  sat  down  beside  the  countess,  sinking  into 
the  perfumed  atmosphere  which  surrounded  her  with  a 
sort  of  nimbus  of  keen  voluptuousness. 

He,  too,  was  unhappy.    He  said  it  sincerely,  believing 

honestly  in  the  lady's  melancholy  despair.     Something 

was  lacking  in  his  life ;  he  was  alone  in  the  world.    And 

,as  he  saw  an  expression  of  surprise  on  Concha's  face,  he 

pounded  his  chest  energetically. 

Yes,  alone.  He  knew  what  she  was  going  to  say.  He 
had  his  wife,  his  daughter.  About  Milita  he  did  not  want 
to  talk;  he  worshiped  her;  she  was  his  joy.  When  he 
felt  tired  out  with  work,  it  gave  him  a  sweet  sense  of 
rest  to  put  his  arms  around  her  neck.  But  he  was  still 
too  young  to  be  satisfied  with  this  joy  of  a  father's  love. 
He  longed  for  something  more  and  he  could  not  find  it 
in  the  companion  of  his  life,  always  ill,  with  her  nerves 
constantly  on  edge.  Besides,  she  did  not  understand  him. 
She  never  would  understand  him;  she  was  a  burden  who 
was  crushing  his  talent. 

Their  union  was  based  merely  on  friendship,  on  mutual 
consideration  for  the  suffering  they  had  undergone  to- 
gether. He,  too,  had  been  deceived  in  taking  for  love 
what  was  only  an  impulse  of  youthful  attraction.  He 
needed  a  true  passion;  to  live  close  to  a  soul  that  was 
akin  to  his,  to  love  a  woman  who  was  his  superior,  who 
could  understand  him  and  encourage  him  in  his  bold 
projects,  who  could  sacrifice  her  commonplace  prejudices 
to  the  demands  of  art. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  117 

He  spoke  vehemently,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Concha's 
£yes  that  shone  with  light  from  the  window. 

But  Renovales  was  interrupted  by  a  cruel,  ironical 
laugh,  while  the  countess  pushed  back  her  chair,  as  if  to 
avoid  the  artist  who  slowly  leaned  forward  toward  her. 

"Look  out,  you're  slipping,  Mariano !  I  see  it  coming. 
A  little  more  and  you  would  have  made  me  a  confession. 
Heavens!  These  men!  You  can't  talk  to  them  like  a 
good  friend,  show  them  any  confidence  without  their  be- 
ginning to  talk  love  on  the  spot.  If  I  would  let  you,  in 
less  than  a  minute  you  would  tell  me  that  I  am  your  ideal, 
that  you  worship  me." 

Renovales,  who  had  moved  away  from  her,  recovering 
his  sternness,  felt  cut  by  that  mocking  laugh  and  said  in 
a  quiet  tone : 

"And  what  if  it  were  true?    What  if  I  loved  you?" 

The  laugh  of  the  countess  rang  out  again,  but  forced, 
false,  with  a  tone  that  seemed  to  tear  the  artist's  breast. 

"Just  what  I  expected!  The  confession  I  spoke  of! 
That's  the  third  one  I've  received  to-day.  But  isn't  it 
possible  to  talk  with  a  man  of  anything  but  love?" 

She  was  already  on  her  feet,  looking  around  for  her 
hat,  for  she  could  not  remember  where  she  had  left  it. 

"Fin  going,  cher  mmtre.  It  isn't  safe  to  stay  here.  I'll 
try  to  come  earlier  next  time  so  that  the  twilight  won't 
catch  us.  It's  a  treacherous  hour;  the  moment  of  the 
greatest  follies." 

The  painter  objected  to  her  leaving.  Her  car- 
riage had  not  yet  come.  She  could  wait  a  few  min- 
utes longer.  He  promised  to  be  quiet,  not  to  talk  to  her, 
as  long  as  it  seemed  to  displease  her. 

The  countess  remained,  but  she  would  not  sit  down 
in  the  chair.  She  walked  around  the  studio  for  a  few 
moments  and  finally  opened  the  organ  that  stood  near 
the  window. 


118  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Let's  have  a  little  music;  that  will  quiet  us.  You, 
Mariano,  sit  still  as  a  mouse  in  your  chair  and  don't 
come  near  me.  Be  a  good  boy  now." 

Her  fingers  rested  on  the  keys;  her  feet  moved  the 
pedals  and  the  Largo  of  Handel,  grave,  mystic,  dreamy, 
swelled  softly  through  the  studio.  The  melody  filled 
the  wide  room,  already  wrapped  in  shadows,  it  made  its 
way  through  the  tapestries,  prolonging  its  winged  whis- 
per through  the  other  two  studios,  as  though  it  were 
the  song  of  an  organ  played  by  invisible  hands  in  a  de- 
serted cathedral  at  the  mysterious  hour  of  dusk. 

Concha  felt  stirred  with  feminine  sentimentality,  that 
superficial,  whimsical,  sensitiveness  that  made  her 
friends  look  on  her  as  a  great  artist.  The  music  filled 
her  with  tenderness;  she  strove  to  keep  back  the  tears 
that  came  to  her  eyes, — why,  she  could  not  tell. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  playing  and  looked  around  anx- 
iously. The  painter  was  behind  her,  she  fancied  she 
felt  his  breath  on  her  neck.  She  wanted  to  protest,  to 
make  him  draw  back  with  one  of  her  cruel  laughs,  but 
she  could  not. 

"Mariano,"  she  murmured,  "go  sit  down,  be  a  good 
boy  and  mind  me.  If  you  don't  I'll  be  cross." 

But  she  did  not  move;  after  turning  half  way  around 
on  the  stool,  she  remained  facing  the  window  with  one 
elbow  resting  on  the  keys. 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time ;  she  in  this  position, 
he  watching  her  face  that  now  was  only  a  white  spot 
in  the  deepening  shadow. 

The  panes  of  the  window  took  on  a  bluish  opaque- 
ness. The  branches  of  the  garden  cut  them  like  sin- 
uous, shifting  lines  of  ink.  In  the  deep  calm  of  the 
studio  the  creaking  of  the  furniture  could  be  heard,  that 
breathing  of  wood,  of  dust,  of  objects  in  the  silence  and 
shadow. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  119 

Both  of  them  seem  to  be  captivated  by  the  mystery  of 
the  hour,  as  if  the  death  of  day  acted  as  an  anaesthetic 
on  their  minds.  They  felt  lulled  in  a  vague,  sweet 
dream. 

She  tjrembled  with  pleasure. 

"Mariano,  go  away,"  she  said  slowly,  as  if  it  cost  her 
an  effort.  "This  is  so  pleasant,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in 
a  bath,  a  bath  that  penetrates  to  my  very  soul.  But 
it  isn't  right.  Turn  on  the  lights,  master.  Light !  Light ! 
This  isn't  proper." 

Mariano  did  not  listen  to  her.  He  had  bent  over  her, 
taking  her  hand  that  was  cold,  unfeeling,  as  if  it  did 
not  notice  the  pressure  of  his. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  start,  he  kissed  it,  almost  bit  it. 

The  countess  seemed  to  awake  and  stood  up,  proudly, 
angrily. 

"That's  childish,  Mariano.    It  isn't  fair." 

But  in  a  moment  she  laughed  with  her  cruel  laugh,  as 
if  she  pitied  the  confusion  that  Renovales  showed  when 
he  saw  her  anger.  "You  are  pardoned,  master.  A  kiss 
on  the  hand  means  nothing.  It  is  the  conventional 
thing.  Many  men  kiss  my  hand." 

And  this  indifference  was  a  bitter  torment  for  the  art- 
ist, who  considered  that  his  kiss  was  a  sign  of  pos- 
session. 

The  countess  continued  to  search  in  the  darkness,  re- 
peating in  an  irritated  voice: 

"Light,  turn  on  the  light.  Where  in  the  world  is  the 
button?" 

The  light  was  turned  on  without  Mariano's  moving, 
before  she  found  the  button  she  was  looking  for.  Three 
clusters  of  electric  lights  flashed  out  on  the  ceiling 
of  the  studio,  and  their  crowns  of  white  needles,  brought 
out  of  the  shadows  the  golden  picture  frames,  the  bril- 


120  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

liant  tapestries,  the  shining  arms,  the  showy  furniture 
and  the  bright-colored  paintings. 

They  both  blinked,  blinded  by  the  sudden  brightness. 

"Good  evening,"  said  a  honeyed  voice  from  the  door- 
way. 

"Josephina!" 

The  countess  ran  toward  her,  embracing  her  effusive- 
ly, kissing  her  bright  red,  emaciated  cheeks. 

"How  dark  you  were,"  continued  Josephina  with  a 
smile  that  Renovales  knew  well. 

Concha  fairly  stunned  her  with  her  flow  of  chatter. 
The  illustrious  master  had  refused  to  light  up,  he 
liked  the  twilight.  An  artist's  whim!  They  had  been 
talking  about  their  dear  Josephina,  while  she  was  wait- 
ing for  her  carriage  to  come.  And  as  she  said  this,  she 
kept  kissing  the  little  woman,  drawing  back  a  little  to 
look  at  her  better,  repeating  impetuously: 

"My,  how  pretty  you  are  to-day.  You  look  better 
than  you  did  three  days  ago." 

Josephina  continued  to  smile.  She  thanked  her.  Her 
carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door.  The  servant  had  told 
her  when  she  came  downstairs,  attracted  by  the  dis- 
tant sound  of  the  organ. 

The  countess  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  leave.  She 
suddenly  remembered  a  host  of  things  she  had  to  do, 
she  enumerated  the  people  who  were  waiting  for  her 
at  home.  Josephina  helped  her  to  put  on  her  hat  and 
veil  and  even  then  the  countess  gave  her  several  good- 
by  kisses  through  the  veil. 

"God-by,  ma  chbre.  Good-by,  mignonne.  Do  you 
remember  our  school  days  ?  How  happy  we  were  there ! 
Good-by,  maitre." 

She  stopped  at  the  door  to  kiss  Josephina  once  more. 

And  finally,  before  she  disappeared,  she  exclaimed  in 
the  querulous  tone  of  a  victim  who  wants  sympathy: 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  121 

"I  envy  you,  eh&rie.  You,  at  least,  are  happy.  You 
have  found  a  husband  who  worships  you.  Master,  take 
lots  of  care  of  her.  Be  good  to  her  so  that  she  may  get 
well  and  pretty.  Take  care  of  her  or  we  shall  quarrel." 


VI 


RENOVALES  had  finished  reading  the  evening  papers  in 
bed  as  was  his  custom,  and  before  putting  out  the  light 
he  looked  at  his  wife. 

She  was  awake.  Above  the  fold  of  the  sheet  he  saw 
her  eyes,  unusually  wide  open,  fixed  on  him  with  a  hos- 
tile stare,  and  the  little  tails  of  her  hair,  that  stuck  out 
under  the  lace  of  her  night-cap  straight  and  sedate. 

"Aren't  you  asleep?"  the  painter  asked  in  an  affec- 
tionate tone,  in  which  there  was  some  anxiety. 

"No." 

And  after  this  hard  monosyllable,  she  turned  over  in 
the  bed  with  her  back  to  him. 

Renovales  remained  in  the  darkness,  with  his  eyes 
open,  somewhat  disturbed,  almost  afraid  of  that  body, 
hidden  under  the  same  sheet,  lying  a  short  distance  from 
him,  which  avoided  touching  him,  shrinking  with  mani- 
fest repulsion. 

Poor  little  girl!  Renovales'  better  nature  felt  tor- 
mented with  a  painful  remorse.  His  conscience  was  a 
cruel  beast  that  had  awakened,  angry  and  implacable, 
tearing  him  with  scornful  teeth.  The  events  of  the 
afternoon  meant  nothing,  a  moment  of  thoughtlessness, 
of  weakness.  Surely  the  countess  would  not  remem- 
ber it  and  he,  for  his  part,  was  determined  not  to  slip 
again. 

A  pretty  situation  for  a  father  of  a  family,  for  a  man 
whose  youth  was  past,  compromising  himself  in  a  love 
affair,  getting  melancholy  in  the  twilight,  kissing  a  white 
hand  like  an  enamored  troubadour!  Good  God!  How 

122 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  123 

his  friends  would  have  laughed  to  see  him  in  that  pos- 
ture! He  must  purge  himself  of  that  romanticism 
which  sometimes  mastered  him.  Every  man  must  fol- 
low his  fate,  accepting  life  as  he  found  it.  He  was 
born  to  be  virtuous,  he  must  put  up  with  the  relative 
peace  of  his  domestic  life,  must  accept  its  limited  pleas- 
ures as  a  compensation  for  the  suffering  his  wife's  ill- 
ness caused  him.  He  would  be  content  with  the  feasts 
of  his  thought,  with  the  revels  in  beauty  at  the  banquets 
served  by  his  fancy.  He  would  keep  his  flesh  faith- 
ful though  it  amounted  to  perpetual  privation.  Poor 
Josephina!  His  remorse  at  a  moment  of  weakness 
which  he  considered  a  crime,  impelled  him  to  draw  closer 
to  her,  as  if  he  sought  in  her  warmth  and  contact  a 
mute  forgiveness. 

Her  body,  burning  with  a  slow  fever,  drew  away  as 
it  felt  his  touch,  it  shriveled  like  those  timid  molluscs 
that  shrink  and  hide  at  the  least  touch.  She  was  awake. 
He  could  not  hear  her  breathing;  she  seemed  dead  in 
the  profound  darkness,  but  he  fancied  her  with  her  eyes 
open,  a  scowl  on  her  forehead  and  he  felt  the  fear  of 
a  man  who  has  a  presentiment  of  danger  in  the  mys- 
tery of  the  darkness. 

Renovales  too  remained  motionless,  taking  care  not  to 
touch  again  that  form  which  silently  repelled  him.  The 
sincerity  of  his  repentance  brought  him  a  sort  of  con- 
solation. Never  again  would  he  forget  his  wife,  his 
daughter,  his  respectability. 

He  would  give  up  forever  the  longings  of  youth, 
that  recklessness,  that  thirst  for  enjoying  all  the  pleas- 
jures  of  life.  His  lot  was  cast;  he  would  continue  to 
be  what  he  always  had  been.  He  would  paint  portraits 
and  everything  that  was  given  to  him  as  a  commission ; 
he  would  please  the  public ;  he  would  make  more  money, 
he  would  adapt  his  art  to  meet  his  wife's  jealous  de- 


124  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

mands,  that  she  might  live  in  peace;  he  would  scoff  at 
that  phantom  of  human  ambition  which  men  call  glory. 
Glory!  A  lottery,  where  the  only  chance  for  a  prize 
depended  on  the  tastes  of  people  still  to  be  born !  Who 
knew  what  the  artistic  inclinations  of  the  future  would 
be?  Perhaps  it  would  appreciate  what  he  was  now  pro- 
ducing with  such  loathing;  perhaps  it  would  laugh  scorn- 
fully at  what  he  wanted  to  paint.  The  only  thing 
of  importance  was  to  live  in  peace,  as  long  as  he  could 
be  surrounded  by  happiness.  His  daughter  would 
marry.  Perhaps  her  husband  would  be  his  favorite 
pupil,  that  Soldevilla,  so  polite,  so  courteous,  who  was 
mad  over  the  mischievous  Milita.  If  it  was  not  he,  it 
would  be  Lopez  de  Sosa,  a  crazy  fellow,  in  love  with 
his  automobiles,  who  pleased  Josephina  more  than  the 
pupil  because  he  had  not  committed  the  sin  of  showing 
talent  and  devoting  himself  to  painting.  He  would  have 
grandchildren,  his  beard  would  grow  white,  he  would 
have  the  majesty  of  an  Eternal  Father  and  Josephina, 
cared  for  by  him,  restored  to  health  by  an  atmosphere 
of  affection,  would  grow  old  too,  freed  from  her  ner- 
vous troubles. 

The  painter  felt  allured  by  this  picture  of  patriarchal 
happiness.  He  would  go  out  of  the  world  without  hav- 
ing tasted  the  best  fruits  which  life  offers,  but  still  with 
the  peace  of  a  soul  that  does  not  know  the  great  heat 
of  passion. 

Lulled  by  these  illusions,  the  artist  was  sinking  into 
sleep.  He  saw  in  the  darkness,  the  image  of  his  calm 
old  age,  with  rosy  wrinkles  and  silvery  hair,  at  his  side 
a  sprightly  little  old  lady,  healthy  and  attractive,  with 
wavy  hair,  and  around  them  a  group  of  children,  many 
children,  some  of  them  with  their  fingers  in  their  noses, 
others  rolling  on  their  backs  on  the  floor,  like  playful 
kittens,  the  older  ones  with  pencils  in  their  hands,  mak- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  125 

ing  caricatures  of  the  old  couple  and  all  shouting  in  a 
chorus  of  loving  cries:  "Grandpa,  dear!  Pretty  grand- 
ma!" 

In  his  sleepy  fancy,  the  picture  grew  indistinct  and 
was  blotted  out.  He  no  longer  saw  the  figures,  but  the 
loving  cry  continued  to  sound  in  his  ears,  dying  away  in 
the  distance. 

Then  it  began  to  increase  again,  drew  slowly  nearer, 
but  it  was  a  complaint,  a  howl  like  that  of  the  victim 
that  feels  the  sacrificed  knife  at  its  throat. 

The  artist,  terrified  by  this  moan,  thought  that  some 
dark  animal,  some  monster  of  the  night  was  tossing 
beside  him,  brushing  him  with  its  tentacles,  pushing  him 
with  the  bony  points  of  its  joints. 

He  awoke  and  with  his  brain  still  cloudy  with  sleep, 
the  first  sensation  he  experienced  was  a  tremble  of  fear 
and  surprise,  reaching  from  his  head  to  his  feet.  The 
invisible  monster  was  beside  him,  dying,  kicking  vio- 
lently, sticking  him  with  its  angular  body.  The  howl 
tore  the  darkness  like  a  death  rattle. 

Renovales,  aroused  by  his  fear,  awoke  completely. 
That  cry  came  from  Josephina.  His  wife  was  tossing 
about  in  the  bed,  shrieking  while  she  gasped  for  breath. 

The  electric  button  snapped  and  the  white,  hard  light 
of  the  lamp  showed  the  little  woman  in  the  disorder  of 
her  nervous  outbreak;  her  weak  limbs  painfully  con- 
vulsed, her  eyes,  staring,  dull  with  an  uncanny  vacancy; 
her  mouth  contracted,  dripping  with  foam. 

The  husband,  dazed  at  this  awakening,  tried  to  take 
her  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  gently  against  him,  as  if 
his  warmth  might  restore  her  calm. 

"Let  me — alone,"  she  cried  brokenly.  "Let  go  of  me. 
I  hate  you !" 

And  though  she  asked  him  to  let  go  of  her,  she  was 
the  one  who  clung  to  him,  digging  her  fingers  into  his 


126  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

throat,  as  if  she  wanted  to  strangle  him.  Renovales,  in- 
sensible to  this  clutch  which  made  little  impression  on 
his  strong  neck,  murmured  with  sad  kindness: 

"Squeeze!  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  me.  Relieve 
your  feelings!" 

Her  hands,  tired  out  with  this  useless  pressure  on 
that  muscular  flesh,  relaxed  their  grasp  with  a  sort  of 
dejection.  The  outbreak  lasted  for  some  time,  but  tears 
came  and  she  lay  exhausted,  inert,  without  any  other 
signs  of  life  than  the  heaving  of  her  breast  and  a  con- 
stant stream  of  tears. 

Renovales  had  jumped  out  of  bed,  moving  about  the 
room  in  his  night  clothing,  searching  on  all  sides,  with- 
out knowing  what  he  was  looking  for,  murmuring  lov- 
ing words  to  calm  his  wife. 

She  stopped  crying,  struggling  to  enunciate  each 
syllable  between  her  sobs.  She  spoke  with  her  head 
buried  in  her  arms.  The  painter  stopped  to  listen  to 
her,  astounded  at  the  coarse  words  that  came  from  her 
lips,  as  if  the  grief  that  stirred  her  soul  had  set  afloat 
all  the  shameful,  filthy  words  she  had  heard  in  the 
streets  that  were  hidden  in  the  depth  of  her  memory. 

"The !"  (And  here  she  uttered  the  classic  word, 

naturally,  as  if  she  had  spoken  thus  all  her  life.)  "The 
shameless  woman !  The !" 

And  she  continued  to  volley  a  string  of  interjections 
which  shocked  her  husband  to  hear  them  coming  from 
those  lips. 

"But  whom  are  you  talking  about?    Who  is  it?" 

She,  as  if  she  were  only  waiting  for  his  question,  sat 
up  in  bed,  got  onto  her  knees,  looking  at  him  fixedly, 
shaking  her  head  on  her  delicate  neck,  so  that  the  short, 
straight  locks  of  hair  whirled  around  it. 

"Whom  do  you  suppose?    The  Alberca  woman.    That 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  127 

peacock!  Look  surprised!  You  don't  know  what  I 
mean !  Poor  thing !" 

Renovales  expected  this,  but  when  he  heard  it,  he 
assumed  an  injured  expression,  fortified  by  his  deter- 
mination to  reform  and  by  the  certainty  that  he  was 
telling  the  truth.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his  heart  in  a 
tragic  attitude,  throwing  back  his  shock  of  hair,  not  no- 
ticing the  absurdity  of  his  appearance  that  was  reflected 
in  the  bedroom  mirror. 

"Josephina,  I  swear  by  all  that  I  love  most  in  the  world 
that  your  suspicions  are  not  true.  I  have  had  nothing 
to  do  with  Concha.  I  swear  it  by  our  daughter  I" 

The  little  woman  became  more  irritated. 

"Don't  swear,  don't  lie,  don't  name  my  daughter.  You 
deceiver !  You  hypocrite !  You  are  all  alike !" 

Did  he  think  she  was  a  fool?  She  knew  everything 
that  was  going  on  around  her.  He  was  a  rake,  a  false 
husband,  she  had  discovered  it  a  few  months  after  their 
marriage ;  a  Bohemian  without  any  other  education  than 
the  low  associations  of  his  class.  And  the  woman 
was  as  bad ;  the  worst  in  Madrid.  There  was  a  reason 
why  people  laughed  at  the  count  everywhere.  Ma- 
riano and  Concha  understood  each  other;  birds  of  a 
feather;  they  made  fun  of  her  in  her  own  house,  in  the 
dark  of  the  studio. 

"She  is  your  mistress,"  she  said  with  cold  anger. 
"Come  now,  admit  it.  Repeat  all  those  shameless 
things  about  the  rights  of  love  and  joy  that  you 
talk  about  to  your  friends  in  the  studio,  those  infamous 
hypocrisies  to  justify  your  scorn  for  the  family,  for 
marriage,  for  everything.  Have  the  courage  of  your 
convictions." 

But  Renovales,  overwhelmed  by  this  fierce  outpour- 
ing of  words  that  fell  on  him  like  a  rain  of  blows,  could 
only  repeat,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  the  expres- 


128  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

sion  of  noble  resignation  of  a  man  who  suffers  an  in- 
justice : 

"I  am  innocent.  I  swear  it.  Your  suspicions  are  ab- 
solutely groundless." 

And  walking  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  he 
tried  again  to  take  Josephina  in  his  arms,  thinking  he 
could  calm  her,  now  that  she  seemed  less  furious  and 
that  her  angry  words  were  broken  by  tears. 

It  was  a  useless  effort.  The  delicate  form  slipped  out 
of  his  hands,  repelling  them  with  a  feeling  of  horror 
and  repugnance. 

"Let  me  alone.    Don't  touch  me.    I  loathe  you." 

Her  husband  was  mistaken  if  he  thought  that  she  was 
Concha's  enemy.  Pshaw!  She  knew. what  women  were. 
She  even  admitted  (since  he  was  so  insistent  in  his  pro- 
testations of  innocence)  that  there  was  nothing  between 
them.  But  if  so,  it  was  due  solely  to  Concha — she  had 
plenty  of  admirers  and,  besides,  her  old  time  friendship 
would  impel  her  not  to  embitter  Josephina's  life.  Con- 
cha was  the  one  who  had  resisted  and  not  he. 

"I  know  you.  You  know  that  I  can  guess  your 
thoughts,  that  I  read  in  your  face.  You  are  faithful 
because  you  are  a  coward,  because  you  have  lacked 
an  opportunity.  But  your  mind  is  loaded  with  foul 
ideas ;  I  detest  your  spirit." 

And  before  he  could  protest,  his  wife  attacked  him; 
anew,  pouring  out  in  one  breath  all  the  observations 
she  had  made,  weighing  his  words  and  deeds  with  the 
subtlety  of  a  diseased  imagination. 

She  threw  in  his  face  the  expression  of  rapture  in  his 
eyes  when  he  saw  beautiful  women  sit  down  before  his 
easel  to  have  their  portraits  painted;  his  praise  of 
the  throat  of  one,  the  shoulders  of  another;  the  almost 
religious  unction  with  which  he  examined  the  photo- 
graphs and  engravings  of  naked  beauties,  painted  by 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  129 

other  artists  whom  he  would  like  to  imitate  in  his  li- 
centious impulses. 

"If  I  should  leave  you!  If  I  should  disappear!  Your 
studio  would  be  a  brothel,  no  decent  person  could  enter 
it;  you  would  always  have  some  woman  stripped  in 
there,  painting  some  disgraceful  picture  of  her/' 

And  in  the  tremble  of  her  irritated  voice  there  was  re- 
vealed the  anger,  the  bitter  disappointment  she  had  ex- 
perienced in  the  constant  contact  with  this  cult  of  beauty, 
that  paid  no  attention  to  her,  who  was  aged  before 
her  time,  sickly,  with  the  ugliness  of  physical  misery, 
whom  each  one  of  these  enthusiastic  homages  wounded 
like  a  reproach,  marking  the  abyss  between  her  sad  con- 
dition and  the  ideal  that  filled  the  mind  of  her  husband. 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  you  are  thinking 
about.  I  laugh  at  your  fidelity.  A  lie !  Hypocrisy !  As 
you  get  older,  a  mad  desire  is  mastering  you.  If  you 
could,  if  you  had  the  courage,  you  would  run  after  these 
creatures  of  beautiful  flesh  that  you  praise  so  highly. 
You  are  commonplace.  There's  nothing  in  you  but 
coarseness  and  materialism.  Form!  Flesh!  And  they 
call  that  artistic?  I'd  have  done  better  to  marry  a  shoe- 
maker, one  of  those  honest,  simple  men  that  takes  his 
poor  little  wife  to  dinner  in  a  restaurant  on  Sunday  and 
worships  her,  not  knowing  any  other." 

Renovales  began  to  feel  irritated  at  this  attack  that 
was  no  longer  based  on  his  actions  but  on  his  thoughts. 
That  was  worse  than  the  Inquisition.  She  had  spied  on 
him  constantly;  always  on  the  watch,  she  picked  up  his 
least  words  and  expressions,  she  penetrated  his  thoughts, 
making  his  inclinations  and  enthusiasms  a  subject  for 
jealousy. 

"Stop,  Josephina.  That's  despicable.  I  won't  be  able 
to  think,  to  produce.  You  spy  on  me  and  pursue  me 
even  in  my  art." 


ISO  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  scornfully.  His  art !  She 
scoffed  at  it. 

And  she  began  again  to  insult  painting,  repenting 
that  she  had  joined  her  lot  to  an  artist's.  Men  like  him 
ought  not  to  marry  respectable  women,  what  people  call 
"homebodies."  Their  fate  was  to  remain  single  or  to 
join  with  unscrupulous  women  who  were  in  love  with 
their  own  form  and  were  capable  of  exhibiting  it  in  the 
street,  taking  pride  in  their  nakedness. 

"I  used  to  love  you ;  did  you  know  it  ?"  she  said  cold- 
ly. "I  used  to  love  you,  but  I  no  longer  love  you. 
What's  the  use?  I  know  that  even  if  you  swore  to  me 
on  your  knees,  you  would  never  be  faithful  to  me.  You 
might  be  tied  to  my  apron  strings  but  your  thoughts 
would  go  wandering  off  to  caress  those  beauties  you 
worship.  You've  got  a  perfect  harem  in  your  head.  I 
think  I  am  living  alone  with  you  and  when  I  look  at 
you,  the  house  is  peopled  with  women  that  surround 
me,  that  fill  everything  and  mock  at  me ;  all  fair,  like  chil- 
dren of  the  devil  all  naked,  like  temptations.  Let  me 
alone,  Mariano,  don't  come  near  me.  I  don't  want 
to  see  you.  Put  out  the  light." 

And  seeing  that  the  artist  did  not  obey  her  command, 
she  pressed  the  button  herself.  The  cracking  of  her 
bones  could  be  heard  as  she  wrapped  herself  up  in  the 
bedclothes. 

Renovales  was  left  in  utter  darkness,  and  feeling  his 
way,  he  got  into  bed  too.  He  no  longer  implored,  he  re- 
mained silent,  angry.  The  tender  compassion  that  made 
him  put  up  with  his  wife's  nervous  attacks  had  disap- 
peared. What  more  did  she  expect  of  him?  How 
far  was  it  going  to  go?  He  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse, 
restraining  his  healthy  passion,  keeping  a  chaste  fidel- 
ity out  of  habit  and  respect,  seeking  an  outlet  in  the  ar- 
dent vagaries  of  his  fancy,  and  even  that  was  a  crime! 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  131 

With  the  acumen  of  a  sick  woman,  she  saw  within  him, 
divining  his  ideas,  following  their  course,  tearing  off 
the  veil  behind  which  he  concealed  those  feasts  of  fancy 
with  which  he  passed  his  solitary  hours.  This  persecu- 
tion reached  even  his  brain.  He  could  not  patiently  en- 
dure the  jealousy  of  that  woman  who  was  embittered 
by  the  loss  of  her  youthful  freshness. 

She  began  her  weeping  again  in  the  darkness.  She 
sobbed  convulsively,  tossing  the  clothes  with  the  heaving 
of  her  breast. 

His  anger  made  him  insensible  and  hard. 

"Groan,  you  poor  wretch,"  he  thought  with  a  sort  of 
relish.  "Weep  till  you  ruin  yourself.  I  won't  be  the  one 
to  say  a  word." 

Josephina,  tired  out  by  his  silence,  interjected  words 
amid  her  sobs.  People  made  fun  of  her.  She  was  a 
constant  laughing-stock.  How  his  friends  who  hung  on 
his  words,  and  the  ladies  who  visited  him  in  his 
studio,  laughed  when  they  heard  him  enthusiastically 
praising  beauty  in  the  presence  of  his  sickly,  broken- 
down  wife !  What  did  she  amount  to  in  that  house,  that 
terrible  pantheon,  that  home  of  sorrow?  A  poor 
housekeeper  who  watched  out  for  the  artist's  comforts. 
And  he  thought  that  he  was  fulfilling  his  duty  by 
not  keeping  a  mistress,  by  staying  at  home,  but  still 
abusing  her  with  his  words  that  made  her  an  object  of 
derision.  If  her  mother  were  only  alive !  If  her  broth- 
ers were  not  so  selfish,  wandering  about  the  world  from 
embassy  to  embassy,  satisfied  with  life,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  her  letters  filled  with  complaints,  thinking  she 
was  insane  because  she  was  not  contented  with  a  distin- 
guished husband  and  with  wealth! 

Renovales,  in  the  darkness,  lifted  his  hands  to  his  fore- 
head in  despair,  infuriated  at  the  sing-song  of  her  un- 
just words. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Her  mother!"  he  thought.  "It's  lucky  that  intoler- 
able old  dame  is  under  the  sod  forever.  Her  brothers! 
A  crowd  of  rakes  that  are  always  asking  me  for  some- 
thing whenever  they  get  a  chance.  Heavens!  Give 
me  the  patience  to  stand  this  woman,  the  calm  resigna- 
tion to  keep  a  cool  head  and  not  to  forget  that  I  am  a 
man!" 

He  scorned  her  mentally  in  order  to  maintain  his  in- 
difference in  this  way.  Bah!  A  woman!  and  a  sick 
one!  Every  man  carries  his  cross  and  his  was  Jo- 
sephina. 

But  she,  as  if  she  penetrated  his  thoughts,  stopped 
crying  and  spoke  to  him  slowly  in  a  voice  that  shook  with 
cruel  irony. 

"You  need  not  expect  anything  from  the  Alberca  wo- 
man," she  said  suddenly  with  feminine  incoherence.  "I 
warn  you  that  she  has  worshipers  by  the  dozen,  young 
and  stylish,  too,  something  that  counts  more  with  wom- 
en than  talent" 

"What  difference  does  that  make  to  me  ?"  Renovales' 
voice  roared  in  the  darkness  with  an  outbreak  of  wrath. 

"I'm  telling  you,  so  that  you  won't  fool  yourself. 
Master,  you  are  going  to  suffer  a  failure.  You  are  very 
old,  my  good  man,  the  years  are  going  by.  So  old  and 
so  ugly  that  if  you  had  looked  the  way  you  do  when  I 
met  you,  I  should  never  have  been  your  wife  in  spite  of 
all  your  glory." 

After  this  thrust,  satisfied  and  calm,  she  seemed  to 
go  to  sleep. 

The  master  remained  motionless,  lying  on  his  back 
with  his  head  resting  on  his  arms  and  his  eyes  wide 
open,  seeing  in  the  darkness  a  host  of  red  spots  that 
spread  out  in  ceaseless  rotation,  forming  floating,  fiery 
rings.  His  wrath  had  set  his  nerves  on  edge;  the  final 
thrust  made  sleep  impossible.  He  felt  restless,  wide- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  133 

awake  after  this  cruel  shock  to  his  pride.  He  thought 
that  in  his  bed,  close  to  him,  he  had  his  worst  enemy. 
He  hated  that  frail  form  that  he  could  touch  with  the 
slightest  movement,  as  if  it  contained  the  rancor  of  all 
the  adversaries  he  had  met  in  life. 

Old!  Contemptible!  Inferior  to  those  young  bloods 
that  swarmed  around  the  Alberca  woman;  he,  a  man 
known  all  over  Europe,  and  in  whose  presence  all  the 
young  ladies  that  painted  fans  and  water-colors  of  birds 
and  flowers,  grew  pale  with  emotion,  looking  at  him  with 
worshiping  eyes ! 

"I  will  soon  show  you,  you  poor  woman,"  he  thought, 
while  a  cruel  laugh  shook  silently  in  the  darkness. 
"You'll  soon  see  whether  glory  means  anything  and 
people  find  me  as  old  as  you  believe." 

With  boyish  joy,  he  recalled  the  twilight  scene,  the 
kiss  on  the  countess's  hand,  her  gentle  abandon,  that 
mingling  of  resistance  and  pleasure  which  opened  the 
way  for  him  to  go  farther.  He  enjoyed  these  memories 
with  a  relish  of  vengeance. 

Afterwards,  his  body,  as  he  moved,  touched  Joseph- 
ina,  who  seemed  to  be  asleep,  and  he  felt  a  sort  of  re- 
pugnance as  if  he  had  rubbed  against  a  hostile  creature. 

She  was  his  enemy;  she  had  distorted  and  ruined  his 
life  as  an  artist,  she  had  saddened  his  life  as  a  man.  Now 
he  believed  that  he  might  have  produced  the  most  re- 
markable works,  if  he  had  not  known  that  little  woman 
who  crushed  him  with  her  weight.  Her  silent  censure, 
her  prying  eyes,  that  narrow,  petty  morality  of  a  well- 
educated  girl,  blocked  his  course  and  made  him  turn  out 
of  his  way.  Her  fits  of  temper,  her  nervous  attacks, 
made  him  lose  his  bearings,  belittling  him,  robbing  him 
of  his  strength  for  work.  Must  he  always  live  like 
this?  The  thought  of  the  long  years  before  him  filled 
him  with  horror,  the  long  road  that  life  offered  him, 


134  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

monotonous,  dusty,  rough,  without  a  shadow  or  a  rest- 
ing place,  a  painful  journey  lacking  enthusiasm  and  ar- 
dor, pulling  at  the  chain  of  duty,  at  the  end  of  which 
dragged  the  enemy,  always  fretful,  always  unjust,  with 
the  selfish  cruelty  of  disease,  spying  on  him  with  search- 
ing eyes  in  the  hours  when  his  mind  was  off  its  guard, 
while  he  slept,  violating  his  secrecy,  forcing  his  immo- 
bility, robbing  him  of  his  most  intimate  ideas,  only  to 
parade  them  before  his  eyes  later  with  the  insolence  of 
a  successful  thief.  And  that  was  what  his  life  was  to 
be !  God !  No,  it  was  better  to  die. 

Then  in  the  black  recesses  of  his  brain  there  rose, 
like  a  blue  spark  of  infernal  gleam,  a  thought,  a  desire, 
that  made  a  chill  of  terror  and  surprise  run  over  his 
body. 

"If  she  would  only  die!" 

Why  not?  Always  ill,  always  sad,  she  seemed  to 
darken  his  mind  with  the  wings  that  beat  ominously.  He 
had  a  right  to  liberty,  to  break  the  chain,  because  he  was 
the  stronger.  He  had  spent  his  life  in  the  struggle  for 
glory,  and  glory  was  a  delusion,  if  it  brought  only  cold 
respect  from  his  fellows,  if  it  could  not  be  exchanged 
for  something  more  positive.  Many  years  of  intense 
existence  were  left ;  he  could  still  exult  in  a  host  of  pleas- 
ures, he  could  still  live,  like  some  artists  whom  he  ad- 
mired, intoxicated  with  worldly  joys,  working  in  mad 
freedom. 

"Oh,  if  she  would  only  die!" 

He  recalled  books  he  had  read,  in  which  other  imagi- 
nary people  had  desired  another's  death  that  they  might 
be  able  to  satisfy  more  fully  their  appetites  and  passions. 

Suddenly  he  felt  as  though  he  were  awakening  from 
a  bad  dream,  as  though  he  were  throwing  oft"  an  over- 
whelming nightmare.  Poor  Josephina!  His  thought 
filled  him  with  horror,  he  felt  the  infernal  desire  burn- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  135 

ing  his  conscience,  like  a  hot  iron  that  throws  off  a 
shower  of  sparks  when  touched.  It  was  not  tenderness 
that  made  him  turn  again  towards  his  companion;  not 
that;  his  old  animosity  remained.  But  he  thought  of 
her  years  of  sacrifice,  of  the  privations  she  had  suffered, 
following  him  in  the  struggle  with  misery,  without  a 
complaint,  without  a  protest,  in  the  pains  of  mother- 
hood, in  the  nursing  of  her  daughter,  that  Milita  who 
seemed  to  have  stolen  all  the  strength  of  her  body  and 
perhaps  was  the  cause  of  her  decline.  How  terrible  to 
wish  for  her  death !  He  hoped  that  she  would  live.  He 
would  bear  everything  with  the  patience  of  duty.  She 
die?  Never,  he  would  rather  die  himself. 

But  in  vain  did  he  struggle  to  forget  the  thought.  The 
atrocious,  monstrous  desire,  once  awakened,  resi&ted, 
refused  to  recede,  to  hide,  to  die  in  the  windings  of  his 
brain  whence  it  had  arisen.  In  vain  did  he  repent  his 
villainy,  or  feel  ashamed  of  his  cruel  idea,  striving  to 
crush  it  forever.  It  seemed  as  though  a  second  person- 
ality had  arisen  within  him,  rebellious  to  his  commands, 
opposed  to  his  conscience,  hard  and  indifferent  to  his 
sympathetic  scruples,  and  this  personality,  this  power, 
continued  to  sing  in  his  ear  with  a  merry  accent,  as  if 
it  promised  him  all  the  pleasures  of  life. 

"If  she  would  only  die!  Eh,  master?  If  she  would 
only  die!" 


PART  II 


I 


AT  the  coming  of  spring  Lopez  de  Sosa,  "the  intrepid 
sportsman,"  as  Cotoner  called  him,  appeared  at  Re- 
novales' house  every  afternoon. 

Outside  the  entrance  gate  stood  his  eighty-horsepower 
automobile,  his  latest  acquisition,  of  which  he  was  in- 
tensely proud,  a  huge  green  car,  that  started  and  backed 
under  the  hand  of  the  chauffeur  while  its  owner  was 
crossing  the  garden  of  the  painter's  house. 

Renovales  saw  him  enter  the  studio,  in  a  blue  suit 
with  a  shining  visor  over  his  eyes,  affecting  the  reso- 
lute bearing  of  a  sailor  or  an  explorer. 

"Good  afternoon,  Don  Mariano,  I  have  come  for  the 
ladies." 

And  Milita  came  down  stairs  in  a  long  gray  coat,  with 
a  white  cap,  around  which  she  wound  a  long  blue  veil. 
After  her  came  her  mother  clad  in  the  same  fashion, 
small  and  insignificant  beside  the  girl,  who  seemed  to 
overwhelm  her  with  her  health  and  grace. 

Renovales  approved  of  these  trips.  Josephina's  legs 
were  troubling  her;  a  sudden  weakness  sometimes  kept 
her  in  her  chair  for  days  at  a  time.  Finding  any  sort 
of  movement  difficult,  she  liked  to  ride  motionless  in 
that  car  that  fairly  ate  up  space,  reaching  distant  sub- 
urbs of  Madrid  without  the  least  effort,  as  if  she  had 
not  moved  from  the  house. 

"Have  a  good  time,"  said  the  painter  with  a  sort  of 
joy  at  the  prospect  of  being  left  alone,  completely  alone, 

1*7 


138  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

without  the  disturbance  of  feeling  his  wife's  hostility 
near  him.  "I  entrust  them  to  you,  Rafaelito ;  be  careful, 
now." 

And  Rafaelito  assumed  an  expression  of  protest,  as  if 
he  were  shocked  that  anyone  could  doubt  his  skill. 
There  was  no  danger  with  him. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Don  Mariano?  Lay  down  your 
brushes  for  a  while.  We're  only  going  to  the  Pardo." 

The  painter  declined;  he  had  a  great  deal  to  do.  He 
knew  what  it  was,  and  he  did  not  like  to  go  so  fast, 
There  was  no  pleasure  in  swallowing  space  with  your 
eyes  almost  closed,  unable  to  see  anything  but  a  hazy 
blur  of  the  scenery,  amid  clouds  of  dust  and  crushed 
stone.  He  preferred  to  look  at  the  landscape  calmly 
without  haste,  with  the  reflective  quiet  of  the  stu- 
dent. Besides  he  was  out  of  place  in  things  that  did  not 
belong  to  his  time ;  he  was  getting  old  and  these  fright- 
ful novelties  did  not  agree  with  him. 

"Good-by,  papa." 

Milita,  lifting  her  veil,  put  out  her  red,  tempting  lips, 
showing  her  bright  teeth  as  she  smiled.  After  this  kiss 
came  the  other,  formal  and  cold,  exchanged  with  the  in- 
difference of  habit,  without  any  novelty  except  that 
Josephina's  mouth  drew  back  from  his,  as  if  she  wanted 
to  avoid  any  contact  with  him. 

They  went  out,  the  mother  leaning  on  Rafaelito's  arm 
with  a  sort  of  languor,  as  if  she  could  hardly  drag  her 
weak  body, — her  pale  face  unrelieved  by  the  least  sign 
of  blood. 

When  Renovales  found  himself  alone  in  the  studio 
he  would  feel  as  happy  as  a  schoolboy  on  a  holiday.  He 
worked  with  a  lighter  touch,  he  roared  out  old  songs, 
delighting  to  listen  to  the  echoes  that  his  voice  awakened 
in  the  high-studded  rooms.  Often  when  Cotoner  came 
in,  he  would  surprise  him  by  the  serene  shamelessness 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  139 

with  which  he  sang  some  one  of  the  licentious  songs  he 
had  learned  in  Rome,  and  the  painter  of  the  Popes, 
smiling  like  a  faun,  joined  in  the  chorus,  applauding  at 
the  end  these  ribald  verses  of  the  studio. 

Tekli,  the  Hungarian,  who  sometimes  spent  an  after- 
noon with  him,  had  departed  for  his  native  land  with  his 
copy  of  La.?  Meninas,  but  not  before  lifting  Renovales' 
hands  several  times  to  his  heart,  with  extravagant  terms 
of  affection  and  calling  him  "noble  master."  The  por- 
trait of  the  Countess  of  Alberca  was  no  longer  in  the 
studio ;  in  a  glittering  frame  it  hung  on  the  walls  of  the 
illustrious  lady's  drawing-room,  where  it  received  the 
worship  of  her  admirers. 

Sometimes  of  an  afternoon  when  the  ladies  had  left 
the  studio  and  the  dull  mumble  of  the  car  and  the  toot- 
ing of  the  horn  had  died  away,  the  master  and  his  friend 
would  talk  of  Lopez  de  Sosa.  A  good  fellow,  somewhat 
foolish,  but  well-meaning;  this  was  the  judgment  of 
Renovales  and  his  old  friend.  He  was  proud  of  hi 
mustache  that  gave  him  a  certain  likeness  to  the  Gex 
man  emperor,  and  when  he  sat  down,  he  took  care  to 
show  his  hands,  by  placing  them  prominently  on  his 
knees,  in  order  that  everyone  might  appreciate  their  vig- 
orous hugeness,  the  prominent  veins,  and  the  strong  fin- 
gers, all  this  with  the  naive  satisfaction  of  a  ditch-dig- 
ger. His  conversation  always  turned  on  feats  of 
strength  and  before  the  two  artists  he  strutted  as  if  he 
belonged  to  another  race,  talking  of  his  prowess  as  a 
fencer,  of  his  triumphs  in  the  bouts,  of  the  weights  he 
could  lift  with  the  slightest  effort,  of  the  number  of 
chairs  he  could  jump  over  without  touching  one  of  them. 
Often  he  interrupted  the  two  painters  when  they 
were  eulogizing  the  great  masters  of  art,  to  tell  them  of 
the  latest  victory  of  some  celebrated  driver  in  the  con- 
test for  a  coveted  cup.  He  knew  by  heart  the  names 


140  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

of  all  the  European  champions  who  had  won  the  im- 
mortal laurel,  in  running,  jumping,  killing  pigeons,  box- 
ing or  fencing. 

Renovales  had  seen  him  come  into  the  studio  one  af- 
ternoon, trembling  with  excitement,  his  eyes  flashing, 
and  showing  a  telegram. 

"Don  Mariano,  I  have  a  Mercedes;  they  have  just 
announced  its  shipment." 

The  painter  looked  blank.  Who  was  that  person- 
age with  the  woman's  name  ?  And  Raf aelito  smiled  with 
pity. 

"The  best  make,  a  Mercedes,  better  than  a  Panhard; 
everyone  knows  that.  Made  in  Germany;  sixty  thou- 
sand francs.  There  isn't  another  one  in  Madrid." 

"Well,  congratulations." 

And  the  artist  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on 
painting. 

Lopez  de  Sosa  was  wealthy.  His  father,  a  former 
manufacturer  of  canned  goods,  had  left  him  a  fortune 
that  he  administered  prudently,  never  gambling,  nor 
keeping  mistresses  (he  had  no  time  for  such  follies) 
but  finding  all  his  amusement  in  sports  that  strengthen 
the  body.  He  had  a  coach-house  of  his  own,  where  he 
kept  his  carriages  and  his  automobiles  which  he  showed 
to  his  friends  with  the  satisfaction  of  an  artist.  It  was 
his  museum.  Besides,  he  owned  several  teams  of  horses, 
for  modern  fads  did  not  make  him  forget  his  former 
tastes,  and  he  took  as  much  pride  in  his  past  glories  as 
a  horseman  as  he  did  in  his  skill  as  a  driver  of  cars.  At 
rare  intervals,  on  the  days  of  an  important  bull-fight  or 
when  some  sensational  races  were  being  run  in  the  Hip- 
podrome, he  won  a  triumph  on  the  box  by  driving 
six  cabs,  covered  with  tassels  and  bells,  that  seemed  to 
proclaim  the  glory  and  wealth  of  their  owner  with  their 
noisy  course. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  141 

He  was  proud  of  his  virtuous  life;  free  from  fool- 
ishness or  petty  love  affairs,  wholly  devoted  to  sports 
and  show.  His  income  was  less  than  his  expenses. 
The  numerous  personnel  of  his  stable-garage,  his  horses, 
gasoline  and  tailors'  bills  ate  up  even  a  part  of  the 
principal.  But  Lopez  de  Sosa  was  undisturbed  in  this 
ruinous  course, — for  he  was  conscious  of  the  danger, 
in  spite  of  his  extravagance.  It  was  a  mere  youthful 
folly,  he  would  cut  down  his  expenses  when  he  mar- 
ried. He  devoted  his  evenings  to  reading,  for  he  could 
not  sleep  quietly,  unless  he  went  through  his  classics 
(sporting-papers,  automobile  catalogs,  etc.),  and  every 
month  he  made  new  acquisitions  abroad,  spending  thou- 
sands of  francs  and,  complaining,  like  a  serious  busi- 
ness man,  of  the  rise  in  the  Exchange,  of  the  exorbi- 
tant customs  charges,  of  the  stupidity  of  the  Govern- 
ment that  so  shackled  the  development  of  the  country. 
The  price  of  every  automobile  was  greatly  increased  on 
crossing  the  frontier.  And  after  that,  politicians  ex- 
pected progress  and  regeneration! 

He  had  been  educated  by  the  Jesuits  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Deusto  and  had  his  degree  in  law.  But  that  had 
not  made  him  over-pious.  He  was  liberal,  he  lived  the 
modern  spirit;  he  had  no  use  for  fanaticism  nor  hy- 
pocrisy. He  had  said  good-by  to  the  good  Fathers  as 
soon  as  his  own  father,  who  was  a  great  admirer  of 
them,  had  died.  But  he  still  preserved  a  certain  respect 
for  them  because  they  had  been  his  teachers  and  he 
knew  that  they  were  great  scholars.  But  modern  life 
was  different.  He  read  with  perfect  freedom,  he  read 
a  great  deal;  he  had  in  his  house  a  library  composed 
of  at  least  a  hundred  French  novels.  He  purchased  ail 
the  volumes  that  came  from  Paris  with  a  woman's  pic- 
ture on  the  cover  and  in  which,  under  pretext  of  de- 
scribing Greek,  Roman,  or  Egyptian  customs,  the  au- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

thor  placed  a  large  number  of  youths  and  maidens  with- 
out any  other  decorations  of  civilization  than  the 
fillets  and  the  caps  that  covered  their  heads. 

He  insisted  on  freedom,  perfect  freedom,  but  for 
him,  men  were  divided  into  two  castes,  decent  people 
and  those  who  were  not.  Among  the  first  figured  en 
masse  all  the  young  fellows  of  the  Gran  Pefia,  the  old 
men  of  the  Casino,  together  with  some  people  whose 
names  appeared  in  the  papers,  a  certain  evidence  of  their 
merit.  The  rest  was  the  rabble,  despicable  and  vulgar 
in  the  streets  of  the  cities,  repulsive  and  displeasing  on 
the  road,  whom  he  insulted  with  all  of  the  coarseness  of 
ill-breeding  and  threatened  to  kill  when  a  child  ran  in 
front  of  his  car  with  the  vicious  purpose  of  letting  it- 
self be  crushed  under  the  wheels,  to  stir  up  trouble  with 
a  decent  person,  or  when  some  workingman,  pretend- 
ing he  could  not  hear  the  warnings  of  his  horn,  would 
not  get  out  of  the  way  and  was  run  over — as  if  a  man 
who  makes  two  pesetas  a  day  were  superior  to  ma- 
chines that  cost  thousands  of  francs!  What  could  you 
do  with  such  ignorant,  commonplace  people!  And 
some  wretches  were  still  talking  about  the  rights  of 
man  and  revolutions ! 

Cotoner,  who  expended  incredible  care  in  keeping 
his  single  suit  presentable  for  calls  and  dinners,  ques- 
tionel  Lopez  de  Sosa  with  astonishment  in  regard  to  the 
progress  of  his  wardrobe. 

"How  many  ties  have  you  now,  Rafael?" 

''About  seven  hundred."  He  had  counted  them  re- 
cently. And  ashamed  that  he  did  not  yet  own  the 
longed-for  thousand,  he  spoke  of  fitting  himself  out  on 
his  next  trip  to  London  when  the  principal  British  au- 
tomobilists  were  to  contend  for  the  cup.  He  received 
his  boots  from  Paris,  but  they  were  made  by  a  Swiss 
boot-maker,  the  same  one  who  provided  the  foot-gear 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  143 

of  Edward  of  England;  he  counted  his  trousers  by  the 
dozen,  and  never  wore  one  pair  more  than  eight  or  ten 
times;  his  linen  was  given  to  his  valet  almost  before  it 
was  used,  his  hats  all  came  from  London.  He  had  eight 
frock-coats  made  every  year,  that  often  grew  old  with- 
out ever  being  worn,  of  different  colors  to  suit  the  cir- 
cumstances and  the  hours  when  he  must  wear  them. 
One  in  particular,  dead  black  with  long  skirts,  gloomy 
and  austere,  copied  from  the  foreign  illustrations  that 
represented  duels,  was  his  uniform  on  solemn  occa- 
sions, which  he  wore  when  some  friend  looked  him  up 
at  the  Pefia,  to  get  his  assistance  in  representing  him 
with  his  customary  skill  in  affairs  of  honor. 

His  tailor  admired  his  talent,  his  masterly  command 
in  choosing  cloth  and  deciding  on  the  cut  among  the 
countless  designs.  Result,  he  spent  something  like  five 
thousand  dollars  a  year  on  his  clothes,  and  said  ingen- 
uously to  the  two  artists, 

"How  much  less  can  a  decent  person  spend  if  he  wants 
to  be  presentable?" 

Lopez  de  Sosa  visited  Renovales'  house  as  a  friend 
after  the  latter  had  painted  his  portrait.  In  spite  of  his 
automobiles,  his  clothes,  and  the  fact  that  he  chose  his 
associates  among  people  who  bore  noble  titles,  he  could 
not  succeed  in  getting  a  foothold  in  society.  He  knew 
that  behind  his  back  people  nicknamed  him,  "Pickled 
Herring,"  alluding  to  his  father's  trade,  and  that  the 
young  ladies,  who  counted  him  as  a  friend,  rebelled  at 
the  idea  of  marrying  the  "Canned-goods  Boy,"  which 
was  another  of  his  names.  The  friendship  of  Renovales 
was  a  source  of  pride. 

He  had  requested  him  to  make  his  portrait,  pay- 
ing him  without  haggling,  in  order  that  he  might  ap- 
pear at  the  Exhibition,  quite  as  good  a  way  as  any  other 
of  introducing  his  insignificance  among  the  famous  men 


144  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

who  were  painted  by  the  artist.  After  that  he  was  on 
intimate  terms  with  the  master,  talking  everywhere 
about  "his  friend,  Renovales!"  with  a  sort  of  famil- 
iarity, as  if  he  were  a  comrade  who  could  not  live  with- 
out him.  This  raised  him  greatly  in  the  estimation  of 
his  acquaintances.  Besides,  he  had  felt  a  real  admira- 
tion for  the  master  ever  since  one  afternoon  when  tired 
out  with  the  account  of  his  prowess  as  a  fencer,  Re- 
novales had  laid  aside  his  brushes  and  taking  down  two 
old  foils,  had  had  several  bouts  with  him.  What  a  man 
he  was!  And  how  he  remembered  the  points  he  had 
learned  in  Rome! 

In  his  frequent  visits  to  the  artist's  house,  he  finally 
felt  attracted  toward  Milita;  he  saw  in  her  the  woman 
he  wanted  to  marry.  Lacking  more  sonorous  titles,  it 
was  something  to  be  the  son-in-law  of  Renovales.  Be- 
sides, the  painter  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being 
wealthy,  he  spoke  of  his  enormous  profits,  and  he  still 
had  many  years  before  him,  to  add  to  his  fortune,  all  of 
which  wTould  be  his  daughter's. 

Lopez  de  Sosa  began  to  pay  court  to  Milita,  calling 
on  his  great  resources,  appearing  every  day  in  a  dif- 
ferent suit,  coming  every  afternoon,  sometimes  in  a 
carriage  drawn  by  a  dashing  pair,  sometimes  in  one  of 
his  cars.  The  fashionable  youth  won  the  favor  of  her 
mother, — an  important  part.  This  was  the  kind  of  a 
husband  for  her  daughter.  No  painter!  And  in  vain 
did  Soldevilla  put  on  his  brightest  ties  and  show  off 
shocking  waist-coats;  his  rival  crushed  him  and,  what 
was  worse,  the  master's  wife,  who  formerly  used  to 
have  a  sort  of  motherly  concern  for  him  and  called  him 
by  his  first  name,  for  she  had  known  him  as  a  boy,  now 
received  him  coldly,  as  if  she  wished  to  discourage  his 
suit  for  Milita. 

The  girl  fluctuated  between  her  two  admirers  with  a 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  145 

mocking  smile.  One  seemed  to  interest  her  as  much  as 
the  other.  She  drove  the  painter,  the  companion  of  her 
childhood,  to  despair,  at  times  abusing  him  with  her 
jests,  at  others  attracting  him  with  her  effusive  inti- 
macy, as  in  the  days  when  they  played  together;  and  at 
the  same  time  she  praised  Lopez  de  Sosa's  stylishness, 
laughed  with  him,  and  Soldevilla  even  suspected  that 
they  wrote  letters  to  each  other  as  if  they  were  engaged. 

Reno  vales  rejoiced  at  the  cleverness  with  which  his 
daughter  kept  the  two  young  men  uncertain  and  eager 
about  her.  She  was  a  terror,  a  boy  in  skirts,  more  man- 
ly than  either  of  her  worshipers. 

"I  know  her,  Pepe,"  he  said  to  Cotoner.  "We  must 
let  her  do  what  she  wants  to.  The  day  she  decides  in 
favor  of  one  or  the  other  we'll  have  to  marry  her  at 
once.  She  isn't  one  of  the  girls  to  wait.  If  we  don't 
marry  her  soon  and  to  her  taste,  she's  likely  to  elope 
with  her  fiance." 

The  father  excused  Milita's  impatience.  Poor  girl! 
Think  what  she  saw  in  her  home!  Her  mother  always 
ill,  terrifying  her  with  her  tears,  her  cries  and  her  nerv- 
ous attacks;  her  father  working  in  his  studio,  and  her 
only  companion  the  unsympathetic  "Miss."  He  owed 
his  thanks  to  Lopez  de  Sosa  for  taking  them  outdoors 
on  these  dizzy  rides  from  which  Josephina  returned 
greatly  quieted. 

Renovales  preferred  his  pupil.  He  was  almost  his 
son,  he  had  fought  many  a  hard  battle  to  give  him  fel- 
lowships and  prizes.  He  was  a  trifle  displeased  at 
some  of  his  slight  infidelities,  for  as  soon  as  he  had  won 
some  renown,  he  bragged  about  his  independence,  prais- 
ing everything  that  the  master  thought  condemna- 
ble  behind  his  back.  But  even  so,  the  idea  of  his  mar- 
rying his  daughter  pleased  him;  a  painter  as  a  son-in- 
law;  his  grandchildren  painters,  the  blood  of  Renovales 


146  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

perpetuated  in  a  dynasty  of  artists  who  would  fill  history 
with  their  glory. 

"But,  oh,  Pepe!  I'm  afraid  the  girl  will  choose  the 
other.  After  all,  she's  a  woman.  And  women  appre- 
ciate only  what  they  see,  gallantry  and  youth." 

And  the  master's  words  betrayed  a  certain  bitterness, 
as  though  he  were  thinking  of  something  very  different 
from  what  he  was  saying. 

Then  he  began  to  discuss  the  merits  of  Lopez  de  Sosa, 
as  if  he  were  already  a  member  of  the  family. 

"A  good  boy,  isn't  he,  Pepe?  A  little  stupid  for  us, 
unable  to  talk  for  ten  minutes  without  making  us  yawn, 
a  fine  fellow,  but  not  our  kind." 

There  was  scorn  in  Renovales'  voice  as  he  spoke  of 
the  vigorous  healthy  young  men  of  the  present,  with 
their  brains  absolutely  free  from  culture,  who  had  just 
assaulted  life,  invading  every  phase  of  it.  What  people ! 
Gymnastics,  fencing,  kicking  a  huge  bull,  swinging  a 
mallet  on  horseback,  wild  flights  in  an  automobile;  from 
the  royal  family  down  to  the  last  middle-class  scion 
everyone  rushed  into  this  life  of  childish  joy,  as  if  a. 
man's  mission  consisted  merety  in  hardening  his  mus- 
cles, sweating  and  delighting  in  the  shifting  chances  of 
a  game.  Activity  fled  from  the  brain  to  the  extremi- 
ties of  the  body.  They  were  strong,  but  their  minds  lay 
fallow,  wrapped  in  a  haze  of  childish  credulity.  Mod- 
ern men  seemed  to  stop  growing  at  the  age  of  fourteen ; 
they  never  went  beyond,  content  with  the  joys  of  move- 
ment and  strength.  Many  of  these  big  fellows  were  ig- 
norant of  women,  or  almost  so,  at  the  age  when  in  other 
times  they  were  turning  back,  satiated  with  love.  Busy 
running  without  direction  or  end,  they  had  no  time  nor 
quiet  to  think  about  women.  Love  was  about  to  go 
on  a  strike,  unable  to  resist  the  competition  of  sports. 
The  young  men  lived  by  themselves,  finding  in  athletic 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  147 

exercise  a  satisfaction  that  left  them  without  any  desire 
or  curiosity  for  the  other  pleasures  of  life.  They  were 
big  boys  with  strong  fists;  they  could  fight  with  a  bull 
and  yet  the  approach  of  a  woman  filled  them  with  ter- 
ror. All  the  sap  of  their  life  was  used  up  in  violent 
exercise.  Intelligence  seemed  to  have  concentrated  in 
their  hands,  leaving  their  heads  empty.  What  was  go- 
ing to  become  of  this  new  people?  Perhaps  it  would 
form  a  healthier,  stronger  human  race,  but  without  love 
or  passion,  without  any  other  association  than  the  blind 
impulse  of  reproduction. 

"We  are  a  different  sort,  eh,  Pepe?"  said  Renovales 
with  a  sly  wink.  "When  we  were  boys  we  didn't  care 
for  our  bodies  so  well,  but  we  had  better  times.  We 
weren't  so  pure,  but  we  were  interested  in  something 
higher  than  automobiles  and  prize  cups ;  we  had  ideals." 

Then  he  began  to  talk  again  of  the  young  man  who 
expected  to  become  one  of  his  family  and  made  sport 
of  his  mentality. 

"If  Milita  decides  on  him,  I  won't  object.  The  im- 
portant thing  in  such  matters  is  that  they  should  be 
congenial  to  each  other.  He's  a  good  boy;  I  could  al- 
most give  him  my  blessing.  But  I  suspect  that  when 
the  sensation  of  novelty  has  worn  off,  he  will  go  back 
to  his  fads  and  poor  Milita  will  be  jealous  of  those  ma- 
chines that  are  eating  up  the  greater  part  of  his  for- 
tune." 

Sometimes,  before  the  light  died  out  in  the  afternoon, 
Renovales  excused  his  model,  if  he  had  one,  and  laying 
aside  his  brushes  went  out  of  the  studio.  When  he 
came  back,  he  would  have  on  his  coat  and  hat. 

"Pepe,  let's  take  a  walk." 

Cotoner  knew  where  this  walk  would  land  them. 

They  followed  the  iron  fence  of  the  Retiro  and  went 
down  the  Calle  de  Alcala,  walking  slowly  among  the 


148  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

groups  of  strollers,  some  of  whom  turned  round  behind 
them  to  point  out  the  master.  "That  taller  one  is  Re- 
novales,  the  painter."  In  a  few  minutes,  Mariano  has- 
tened his  step  with  nervous  impatience,  he  stopped  talk- 
ing and  Cotoner  followed  him  with  an  ill-humored  ex- 
pression, humming  between  his  teeth.  When  they 
reached  the  Cibeles,  the  old  painter  knew  that  their  walk 
was  nearly  over. 

"I'll  see  you  to-morrow,  Pepe,  I'm  going  this  way.  I've 
got  to  see  the  countess." 

One  day,  he  did  not  limit  himself  to  this  brief  leave- 
taking.  After  he  had  gone  a  few  steps,  he  came  back 
toward  his  companion  and  said  hesitatingly: 

"Listen,  if  Josephina  asks  you  where  I  went,  don't 
say  anything.  I  know  that  you  are  prudent  but  she  is 
always  worried.  I  tell  you  this  so  as  to  avoid  any 
trouble.  The  two  women  don't  get  along  together  very 
well.  Some  woman's  quarrel!" 


II 


AT  the  opening  of  spring,  when  Madrid  was  begin- 
ning to  think  good  weather  had  really  come,  and 
people  were  impatiently  getting  out  their  summer  clothes, 
there  was  an  unexpected  and  treacherous  return  of 
winter  that  clouded  the  sky  and  covered  with  a  coat  of 
snow  the  muddy  ground  and  the  gardens  where  the  first 
flowers  of  spring  were  beginning  to  sprout. 

There  was  a  fire  once  more  in  the  fireplace  in  the 
drawing-room  of  the  Countess  of  Alberca,  where  all 
the  gentlemen  who  formed  her  coterie  gathered  to  keep 
warm  on  days  when  she  was  ''at  home/'  not  having  a 
meeting  to  preside  over  or  calls  to  make. 

When  Renovales  came  one  afternoon,  he  spoke  en- 
thusiastically of  the  view  of  Moncloa,  covered  with 
snow.  He  had  just  been  there,  a  beautiful  sight,  the 
woods,  buried  in  wintry  silence,  surprised  by  the  white 
shroud  when  they  were  beginning  to  crack  with  the 
swelling  of  the  sap.  It  was  a  pity  that  the  camera  craze 
filled  the  woods  with  so  many  people  who  went  back 
and  forth  with  their  outfits,  sullying  the  purity  of  the 
snow. 

The  countess  was  as  interested  as  a  child.  She  wanted 
to  see  that,  she  would  go  the  next  day.  Her  friends 
tried  in  vain  to  dissuade  her,  telling  her  the  weather 
would  probably  change  presently.  To-morrow  the  sun 
would  come  out,  the  snow  would  melt ;  these  unexpected 
storms  were  characteristic  of  the  fickle  climate  of  Ma- 
drid. 

"It   makes   no   difference,"   said   Concha   obstinately. 


150  WOMAN  TRIUMJr .-..  NT 

"I've  got  the  idea  into  my  head.  It's  years  since  I  have 
seen  it.  My  life  is  such  a  busy  one." 

She  would  go  to  see  the  thaw  in  the  morning ;  no,  not 
in  the  morning.  She  got  up  late  and  had  to  receive  all 
those  Women's  Rights  ladies  that  came  to  consult  her. 
In  the  afternoon,  she  would  go  after  luncheon.  It  was 
too  bad  that  Renovales  worked  at  that  time  and  could 
not  go  with  her.  He  could  appreciate  landscapes  so 
well  with  his  artist's  eyes  and  had  often  spoken  to  her 
of  the  sunset  from  the  palace  of  Moncloa,  a  sight  almost 
equal  to  the  one  you  can  see  in  Rome  from  the  Pinzio 
at  dusk.  The  painter  smiled  gallantly.  He  would  try 
to  be  at  Moncloa  the  next  day;  they  would  meet. 

The  countess  seemed  to  take  sudden  fright  at  this 
promise  and  glanced  at  Doctor  Monteverde.  But  she 
was  disappointed  in  her  hope  of  being  censured  for  her 
fickleness  and  unfaithfulness,  for  the  doctor  remained 
indifferent. 

Lucky  doctor !  How  Renovales  hated  him.  He  was  a 
young  man,  as  fair  and  as  fragile  as  a  porcelain  figure, 
a  combination  of  such  striking  beauties  that  his  face  was 
almost  a  caricature.  His  hair,  parted  in  two  waves 
over  his  pale  forehead,  was  black,  very  black  and  shin- 
ing with  bluish  reflections,  his  eyes,  as  soft  as  velvet, 
showed  the  read  spot  of  the  lachrymal  on  the  polished 
ivory  of  the  cornea,  veritable  odalisque  eyes,  his  bright 
red  lips  showed  under  his  bristly  mustache,  his  com- 
plexion was  as  pale  as  a  camellia,  and  his  teeth  flashed 
like  pearl.  Concha  looked  at  him  with  ecstatic  devotion, 
talked  with  her  eyes  on  him,  consulting  him  with  her 
glance,  lamenting  inwardly  his  lack  of  mastery,  eager  to 
be  his  slave,  to  be  corrected  by  him  in  all  the  caprices  of 
her  giddy  character. 

Renovales    scorned    him,    questioning    his    manhood, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  151 

making  the  most  atrocious  comments  on  him  in  his  rough 
fashion. 

He  was  a  doctor  of  science  and  was  waiting  for  a 
chair  at  Madrid  to  be  declared  vacant,  that  he  might  be- 
come a  candidate  for  it.  The  Countess  of  Alberca 
had  him  under  her  high  protection,  talking  about  him 
enthusiastically  to  all  the  important  gentlemen  who  ex- 
ercised any  influence  in  University  circles.  She  would 
break  out  into  the  most  extravagant  praise  of  the  doc- 
tor in  Renovales'  presence.  He  was  a  scholar  and  what 
made  her  admire  him  was  the  fact  that  all  his  learning 
did  not  keep  him  from  dressing  well  and  being  as  fair 
as  an  angel. 

"For  pretty  teeth,  look  at  Monteverde's,"  she  would 
say,  looking  at  him  in  the  crowded  room,  through  her 
lorgnette. 

At  other  times,  following  the  course  of  her  ideas,  she 
would  interrupt  the  conversation,  without  noticing  the 
irrelevancy  of  her  words. 

"But  did  you  notice  the  doctor's  hands?  They're 
more  delicate  than  mine!  They  look  like  a  woman's 
hands." 

The  painter  was  indignant  at  these  demonstrations  of 
Concha's  that  often  occurred  in  her  husband's  presence. 

The  calm  of  that  honorable  gentleman  astounded  him. 
Was  the  man  blind?  And  the  count  with  fatherly  good 
humor  always  said  the  same  thing. 

"That  Concha!  Did  you  ever  hear  such  frankness! 
Don't  mind  her,  Monteverde,  it's  my  wife's  way,  child- 
ishness." 

The  doctor  would  smile,  flattered  at  the  atmosphere 
of  worship  with  which  the  countess  surrounded  him. 

He  had  written  a  book  on  the  natural  origin  of  ani- 
mal organism,  of  which  the  fair  countess  spoke  enthu- 
siastically. The  painter  observed  this  change  in  her 


152  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

tastes  with  surprise  and  envy.  No  more  music,  nor 
verses,  nor  plastic  arts  which  had  formerly  occupied 
her  flighty  attention,  that  was  attracted  by  everything 
that  shines  or  makes  a  noise.  Now  she  looked  on  the 
arts  as  pretty,  insignificant  toys  that  were  fit  to  amuse 
only  the  childhood  of  the  human  race.  Times  were 
changing,  people  must  be  serious.  Science,  nothing  but 
science;  she  was  the  protectress,  the  good  friend,  the 
adviser  of  a  scholar.  And  Renovales  found  famous 
books  on  the  tables  and  chairs,  feverishly  run  through 
and  laid  aside  because  she  grew  tired  of  them  or 
could  not  understand  them  after  the  first  impulse 
of  curiosity. 

Her  coterie,  almost  wholly  composed  of  old  gentle- 
men attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  countess,  and  in  love 
with  her  though  without  hope,  smiled  to  hear  her 
talking  so  weightily  about  science.  Men  who  were 
prominent  in  politics  admired  her  frankly.  How  many 
things  that  woman  knew !  Many  that  they  did  not  know 
themselves.  The  others,  well-known  physicians,  profes- 
sors, lawyers,  who  had  not  studied  anything  for  years, 
approved  complacently.  For  a  woman  it  was  not  at  all 
bad.  And  she,  lifting  her  glasses  to  her  eyes  from  time 
to  time  to  relish  the  doctor's  beauty,  talked  with  a  pedan- 
tic slowness  about  protoplasms,  and  the  reproduction 
of  the  cells,  the  cannibalisms  of  the  phagocytes,  catarine, 
anthropoid  and  pithecoid  apes,  discoplacentary  mam- 
mals and  the  Pithecanthropes,  treating  the  mysteries 
of  life  with  friendly  confidence,  repeating  strange  scien- 
tific words,  as  if  they  were  the  names  of  society  folks, 
who  had  dined  with  her  the  evening  before. 

The  handsome  Doctor  Monteverde,  according  to  her, 
was  head  and  shoulders  above  all  the  scholars  of  uni- 
versal reputation. 

Their  books  made  her  tired,  she  could  not  make  any- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  153 

thing  out  of  them,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  doctor 
admired  them  greatly.  To  make  up  for  this,  she  had 
read  Monteverde's  book  over  and  over,  and  she  recom- 
mended this  wonderful  work  to  her  lady  friends,  who  in 
matters  of  reading  never  went  beyond  the  novels  in  pop- 
ular magazines. 

"He  is  a  scholar/'  said  the  countess  one  afternoon 
while  talking  alone  with  Renovales.  ''He's  just  be- 
ginning now,  but  I  will  push  him  ahead  and  he  will  turn 
out  to  be  a  genius.  He  has  extraordinary  talent.  I 
wish  you  had  read  his  book.  Are  you  acquainted  with 
Darwin  ?  You  aren't,  are  you  ?  Well,  he  is  greater  than 
Darwin,  much  greater." 

"I  can  believe  that,"  said  the  painter.  "Your  Monte- 
verde  is  as  pretty  as  a  baby  and  Darwin  was  an  ugly  old 
fellow." 

The  countess  hesitated  whether  to  get  serious  or  to 
laugh,  and  finally  she  shook  her  lorgnette  at  him. 

"Keep  still,  you  horrid  man.  After  all,  you're  a 
painter.  You  can't  understand  tender  friendships,  pure 
relations,  fraternity  based  on  study." 

How  bitterly  the  painter  laughed  at  this  purity  and 
fraternity!  His  eyes  were  good  and  Concha,  for  her 
part,  was  no  model  of  prudence  in  hiding  her  feelings. 
Monteverde  was  her  lover,  just  as  formerly  a  musician 
had  been,  at  a  period  when  the  countess  talked  of  noth- 
ing but  Beethoven  and  Wagner,  as  if  they  were  callers, 
and  long  before  that  a  pretty  little  duke,  who  gave  pri- 
vate amateur  bull-fights  at  which  he  slaughtered  the  in- 
nocent oxen  after  greeting  lovingly  the  Alberca  woman, 
who,  wrapped  in  a  white  mantilla,  and  decorated  with 
pinks,  leaned  out  of  the  box  in  the  grandstand.  Her 
relations  with  the  doctor  were  almost  common  talk. 
That  was  amply  proved  by  the  fury  with  which  the  gen- 
tlemen of  her  coterie  pulled  him  to  pieces,  declaring  that 


154  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

he  was  an  idiot  and  that  his  book  was  a  Harlequin's  coat, 
a  series  of  excerpts  from  other  men,  poorly  basted  to- 
gether, with  the  daring  of  ignorance.  They,  too,  were 
stung  by  envy,  in  their  senile,  silent  love,  by  the  triumph 
of  that  stripling  who  carried  off  their  idol,  whom  they 
had  worshiped  with  a  contemplative  devotion  that  gave 
new  life  to  their  old  age. 

Renovales  was  angry  with  himself.  He  tried  in  vain 
to  overcome  the  habit  that  made  him  turn  his  steps  every 
afternoon  toward  the  countess's  house. 

"I'll  never  go  there  again,"  he  would  say  when  he  was 
back  in  his  studio.  "A  pretty  part  you're  playing, 
Mariano !  Acting  as  a  chorus  to  a  love  duet,  in  the  com- 
pany of  all  these  senile  imbeciles.  A  fine  aim  in  life,  this 
countess  of  yours !" 

But  the  next  day  he  would  go  back,  thinking  with  a 
sort  of  hope  of  Monteverde's  pretentious  superiority,  and 
the  disdainful  air  with  which  he  received  his  fair  adorer's 
worship.  Concha  would  soon  get  tired  of  this  mus- 
tached  doll  and  turn  her  eyes  on  him,  a  man. 

The  painter  observed  the  transformation  of  his  na- 
ture. He  was  a  different  man,  and  he  made  every  effort 
to  keep  his  family  from  noticing  this  change.  He  recog- 
nized mentally  that  he  was  in  love,  with  the  satisfaction 
of  a  mature  man  who  sees  in  this  a  sign  of  youth  the 
budding  of  a  second  life.  He  had  felt  impelled  toward 
Concha  by  the  desire  of  breaking  the  monotony  of  his 
existence,  of  imitating  other  men,  of  tasting  the  acidity 
of  infidelity,  in  a  brief  escape  from  the  stern  imposing 
walls  that  shut  in  the  desert  of  married  life  which  was 
every  day  covered  with  more  brambles  and  tares.  Her 
resistance  exasperated  him,  increasing  his  desire.  He 
was  not  exactly  sure  how  he  felt ;  perhaps  it  was  merely 
a  physical  attraction  and  added  to  that  the  wound  to 
his  pride,  the  bitterness  of  being  repelled  when  he  came 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  155 

down  from  the  heights  of  virtue,  where  he  had  held  his 
position  with  savage  pride,  believing  that  all  the  joys  of 
the  earth  were  waiting  for  him,  dazzled  by  his  glory  and 
that  he  had  only  to  hold  out  his  arms  and  they  would  run 
to  him. 

He  felt  humiliated  by  his  failure;  a  dumb  rage  filled 
him  when  he  compared  his  gray  hair  and  his  eyes,  sur- 
rounded by  growing  wrinkles,  with  that  pretty  boy  of 
science  who  seemed  to  drive  the  countess  insane. 
Women!  Their  intellectual  interest,  their  exaggerated 
admiration  of  fame!  A  lie!  They  worshiped  talent 
only  when  it  was  well  presented  in  a  young  and  beautiful 
covering. 

Impelled  by  his  obstinacy,  Renovales  was  determined 
to  overcome  the  resistance.  He  recalled,  without  the 
least  remorse,  the  scene  with  his  wife  in  the  bedroom, 
and  her  scornful  words  that  foretold  his  failure  with  the 
countess.  Josephina's  disdain  was  only  another  spur  to 
urge  him  to  continue  his  course. 

Concha  kept  him  off  and  led  him  on  at  the  same  time. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  the  master's  love  flattered 
her  vanity.  She  laughed  at  his  passionate  protestations, 
taking  them  in  jest,  always  answering  them  in  the  same 
tone:  "Be  dignified,  master.  That  isn't  becoming  to 
you.  You  are  a  great  man,  a  genius.  Let  the  boys  be 
the  ones  to  play  the  part  of  the  lovesick  student."  But 
when  enraged  at  her  subtle  mockery,  he  took  a  mental 
oath  not  to  come  back  again,  she  seemed  to  guess  it  and 
she  suddenly  assumed  an  affectionate  air,  attracting  him 
with  an  interest  that  made  him  foresee  the  near  approach 
of  his  triumph. 

If  he  was  offended  and  kept  silence,  she  was  the 
one  who  talked  of  love,  of  eternal  passions  between  two 
beings  of  lofty  minds,  based  on  the  harmony  of  their 
thoughts;  and  she  did  not  cease  this  dangerous  conver- 


156  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

sation  until  the  master,  with  a  sudden  renewal  of  con- 
fidence, came  forward  offering  his  love,  only  to  be  re- 
ceived with  that  kindly  and  still  ironical  smile  that  seemed 
to  look  on  him  as  a  child  whose  judgment  was  faulty. 

And  so  the  master  lived,  fluctuating  between  hope  and 
despair,  now  favored,  now  repelled,  but  always  incapable 
of  escaping  from  her  influence,  as  if  a  crime  were  haunt- 
ing him.  He  sought  opportunities  to  see  her  alone  with 
the  ingenuity  of  a  college  boy,  he  invented  pretexts  for 
going  to  her  house  at  unusual  hours,  when  there  were  no 
callers  present,  and  his  courage  failed  him  when  he  ran 
into  the  pretty  doctor  and  felt  around  himself  that  sen- 
sation of  uneasiness  which  always  seizes  an  unwelcome 
guest. 

The  vague  hope  of  meeting  the  countess  at  Moncloa, 
of  walking  with  her  a  whole  afternoon,  unmolested  by 
that  circle  of  insufferable  people  who  surrounded  her 
with  their  drooling  worship,  kept  him  excited  all  night 
and  the  next  morning,  as  if  a  real  rendezvous  were  await- 
ing him.  Would  she  go?  Was  not  her  promise  a  mere 
whim  that  she  had  immediately  forgotten?  He  sent  a 
note  to  an  ex-minister  of  State,  whose  portrait  he  was 
painting,  to  ask  him  not  to  come  to  the  studio  that  after- 
noon, and  after  luncheon  he  got  into  a  cab,  telling  the 
cabby  to  beat  the  horse,  to  go  full  speed,  for  fear  of  being 
late. 

He  knew  that  it  would  be  hours  before  she  came,  if  she 
did  come ;  but  a  mad,  unreasonable  impatience  filled  him. 
He  thought  without  knowing  why  that,  by  arriving 
ahead  of  time,  he  would  hasten  the  countess's  coming. 

He  got  out  in  the  square  in  front  of  the  little  palace 
of  Moncloa.  The  cab  disappeared  in  the  direction  of 
Madrid,  up  hill  along  an  avenue  that  was  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance behind  an  arch  of  dry  branches. 

Renovales  walked  up  and  down,  alone  in  the  little 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT.  157 

square.  The  sun  was  shining  in  a  patch  of  blue  sky, 
among  the  heavy  clouds.  In  the  places  which  its  rays 
did  not  reach,  it  was  cold.  The  water  ran  down  from  the 
foot  of  the  trees,  after  dripping  from  the  branches  and 
trickling  down  the  trunks;  it  was  melting  rapidly.  The 
wood  seemed  to  weep  with  joy  under  the  caress  of  the 
sun,  that  destroyed  the  last  traces  of  the  white  shroud. 

The  majestic  silence  of  Nature,  abandoned  to  its  own 
power,  surrounded  the  artist.  The  pines  were  swinging 
with  the  long  gusts  of  wind,  filling  space  with  a  mur- 
mur, like  the  sound  of  distant  harps.  The  square  was 
hidden  in  the  icy  shadow  of  the  trees.  Up  above  in 
the  front  of  the  palace  some  pigeons,  seeking  the  sun 
above  the  tops  of  the  pines,  swept  around  the  old  flag- 
pole and  the  classic  busts  blackened  by  the  weather. 
Then,  tired  of  flying,  they  settled  down  on  the  rusty  iron 
balconies,  adding  to  the  old  building  a  white  fluttering 
decoration,  a  rustling  garland  of  feathers.  In  the  middle 
of  the  square  a  marble  swan,  with  its  neck  violently 
stretched  toward  the  sky,  threw  out  a  jet,  whose  mur- 
mur seemed  to  heighten  the  impression  of  icy  cold  which 
he  felt  in  the  shadow. 

Renovales  began  to  walk,  crushing  the  frozen  crust 
that  cracked  under  his  feet  in  the  shady  places.  He 
leaned  over  the  circular  iron  rail  that  surrounds  a  part  of 
the  square.  Through  the  curtain  of  black  branches, 
where  the  first  buds  were  beginning  to  open,  he  saw  the 
ridge  that  bounds  the  horizon ;  the  mountains  of  Guadar- 
rama,  phantoms  of  snow  that  were  mingled  with  the 
masses  of  clouds.  Nearer,  the  mountains  of  Pardo  stood 
out  with  their  dark  peaks,  black  with  pines,  and  to  the 
left  stretched  out  the  slopes  of  the  hills  of  the  Casa  de 
Campo,  where  the  first  yellow  touches  of  spring  were 
beginning  to  show. 

At  his  feet  lay  the  fields  of  Moncloa,  the  antique  little 


158  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

gardens,  the  grove  of  Viveros,  bordering  the  stream. 
Carriages  were  moving  in  the  roads  below,  their  var- 
nished tops  flashing  in  the  sun  like  fiery  mortar  boards. 
The  meadows,  the  foliage  of  the  woods,  everything 
seemed  clean  and  bright  after  the  recent  storm.  The 
all-pervading  green  tone,  with  its  infinite  variations  from 
black  to  yellow,  smiled  at  the  touch  of  the  sun  atter  the 
chill  of  the  snow.  In  the  distance  sounded  the  constant 
reports  of  shotguns  that  seemed  to  tear  the  air  with  the 
intensity  that  is  common  in  still  afternoons.  They  were 
hunting  in  the  Casa  de  Campo.  Between  the  colonnades 
of  trees  and  the  green  sheets  of  the  meadows,  the  water 
flashed  in  the  sun,  bits  of  ponds,  glimpses  of  canals,  pools 
of  melted  snow,  like  bright  trembling  edges  of  huge 
swords,  lost  in  the  grass. 

Renovales  hardly  looked  at  the  landscape;  it  had  no 
message  for  him  that  afternoon.  He  was  preoccupied 
with  other  things.  He  saw  a  smart  coupe  come  down  the 
avenue,  and  he  left  the  belvedere  to  go  to  meet  it.  She 
was  coming!  But  the  coupe  passed  by  him,  slowly  and 
majestically  without  stopping  and  he  saw  through  the 
window  an  old  lady  wrapped  in  furs,  with  sunken  eyes 
and  distorted  mouth,  trembling  with  old  age,  her  head 
bobbing  with  the  movement  of  the  carriage.  It  disap- 
peared in  the  direction  of  the  little  church  beside  the 
palace  and  the  painter  was  alone  again. 

No!  She  would  not  come!  His  heart  began  to  tell 
him  that  there  was  no  use  waiting. 

Some  little  girls,  with  battered  shoes,  and  straight 
greasy  hair  that  floated  around  their  necks,  began  to  run 
about  the  square.  Renovales  did  not  see  where  they 
came  from.  Perhaps  they  were  the  children  of  the 
guardian  of  the  palace. 

A  guard  came  down  the  avenue  with  his  gun  hanging 
from  his  shoulder,  and  his  horn  at  his  side.  Beyond 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  159 

approached  a  man  in  black,  who  looked  like  a  servant, 
escorted  by  two  huge  dogs,  two  majestic  bluish-gray 
Danes,  that  walked  with  a  dignified  bearing,  prudent  and 
moderate  but  proud  of  their  terrifying  appearance.  Not 
a  carriage  could  be  seen.  Curses ! 

Seated  on  one  of  the  stone  benches,  the  master  finally 
took  out  the  little  notebook  that  he  always  carried  with 
him.  He  sketched  the  figures  of  the  children  as  they 
ran  around  the  fountain.  That  was  one  way  to  kill 
time.  One  after  the  other  he  sketched  all  the  girls, 
then  he  caught  them  in  several  groups,  but  at  last  they 
disappeared  behind  the  palace,  going  down  toward  the 
Carlo  Gordo.  Renovales,  having  nothing  to  distract  him, 
left  his  seat  and  walked  about,  stamping  noisily.  His  feet 
were  like  ice,  this  waiting  in  the  cold  was  putting  him  in  a 
terrible  mood.  Then  he  went  and  sat  down  on  another 
bench  near  the  servant  in  black,  who  had  the  two  dogs 
at  his  knees.  They  were  sitting  on  their  hind  paws,  rest- 
ing with  as  much  dignity  as  real  people,  watching  that 
gentleman  with  their  gray  eyes  that  winked  intelligently, 
as  he  looked  at  them  attentively  and  then  moved  his  pen- 
cil on  the  book  that  rested  on  his  knee.  The  painter 
sketched  the  two  dogs  in  different  postures,  giving  him- 
self up  to  the  work  with  such  interest  that  he  quite  for- 
got his  purpose  in  coming  there.  Oh,  what  splendid 
creatures !  Renovales  loved  animals  in  which  beauty  was 
united  with  strength.  If  he  had  lived  alone  and  could 
have  consulted  his  own  tastes,  he  would  have  converted 
his  house  into  a  menagerie. 

The  servant  went  away  with  his  dogs  and  the  artist 
once  more  was  left  alone.  Several  couples  passed  slowly, 
arm  in  arm,  and  disappeared  behind  the  palace  toward 
the  gardens  below.  Then  a  group  of  school  boys  that  left 
behind  them,  as  their  cassocks  fluttered,  that  odor  of 


160  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

healthy,  dirty  flesh  that  is  peculiar  to  barracks  and  con- 
vents. And  still  the  countess  did  not  come ! 

The  painter  went  again  to  rest  his  elbows  on  the  balus- 
trade of  the  belvedere.  He  would  only  wait  a  half  an 
hour  longer.  The  afternoon  was  wearing  away;  the  sun 
was  still  high,  but  from  time  to  time  the  landscape  was 
darkened.  The  clouds  that  had  been  confined  on  the 
horizon  had  been  let  loose  and  they  were  rolling  through 
the  field  of  the  sky  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  assuming 
fantastic  shapes,  rushing  eagerly  in  tumultuous  confu- 
sion as  if  they  wished  to  swallow  the  ball  of  fire  that 
was  slipping  slowly  over  a  bit  of  clear  blue  sky. 

Suddenly,  Renovales  felt  a  sort  of  shock  near  his 
heart.  No  one  had  touched  him ;  it  was  a  warning  of  his 
nerves  that  for  some  time  had  been  especially  irritable. 
She  was  near,  was  coming  he  was  sure.  And  turning 
around,  he  saw  her,  still  a  long  way  off,  coming  down 
the  avenue,  in  black  with  a  fur  coat,  her  hands  in  a  little 
muff  and  a  veil  over  her  eyes.  Her  tall,  graceful  sil- 
houette was  outlined  against  the  yellow  ground  as  she 
passed  the  trees.  Her  carriage  was  returning  up  the  hill, 
perhaps  to  wait  for  her  at  the  top  near  the  School  of 
Agriculture. 

As  she  met  him  in  the  center  of  the  square  she  held 
out  her  gloved  hand,  warm  from  the  muff,  and  they 
turned  toward  the  belvedere,  chatting. 

"I'm  in  a  furious  mood,  disgusted  to  death.  I  didn't 
expect  to  come;  I  forgot  all  about  it,  upon  my  word. 
But  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  President's  house  I 
thought  of  you.  I  was  sure  I  would  find  you  here.  And 
so  I  have  come  to  have  you  drive  away  my  ill  humor." 

Through  the  veil,  Renovales  saw  her  eyes  that  flashed 
hostilely  and  her  dainty  lips  angrily  tightened. 

She  spoke  quickly,  eager  to  vent  the  wrath  that  was 
swelling  her  heart,  without  paying  any  attention  to  what 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT.  161 

was  around  her,  as  if  she  were  in  her  own  drawing  room 
where  everything  was  familiar. 

She  had  been  to  see  the  Prime-Minister  to  recommend 
her  "affair"  to  his  attention;  a  desire  of  the  count's  on 
the  fulfillment  of  which  his  happiness  depended.  Poor 
Paco  (her  husband)  dreamed  of  the  Golden  Fleece. 
That  was  the  only  thing  that  was  lacking  to  crown  the 
tower  of  crosses,  keys  and  ribbons  that  he  was  raising 
about  his  person,  from  his  belly  to  his  neck,  till  not  an 
inch  of  his  body  was  without  this  glorious  covering.  The 
Golden  Fleece  and  then  death!  Why  should  they  not 
do  this  favor  for  Paco,  such  a  good  man,  who  would 
not  hurt  a  fly?  What  would  it  cost  them  to  grant  him 
this  toy  and  make  him  happy  ? 

"There  aren't  any  friends  any  longer,  Mariano,"  said 
the  countess  bitterly.  'The  Prime-Minister  is  a  fool 
who  forgets  his  old  friendships  now  that  he  is  head  of 
the  government.  I  who  have  seen  him  sighing  around 
me  like  a  comic  opera  tenor,  making  love  to  me  (yes,  I 
tell  the  truth  to  you)  and  ready  to  commit  suicide  be- 
cause I  scorned  his  vulgarity  and  foolishness!  This 
afternoon,  the  same  old  story;  lots  of  holding  my  hand, 
lots  of  making  eyes,  'dear  Concha,'  'sweet  Concha'  and 
other  sugary  expressions,  just  such  as  he  sings  in  Con- 
gress like  an  old  canary.  Sum  total,  the  Fleece  is  im- 
possible, he  is  very  sorry,  but  at  Court  they  are  unwill- 
ing." 

And  the  countess,  as  if  she  saw  for  the  first  time 
where  she  was,  turned  her  eyes  angrily  toward  the  dark 
hills  of  the  Casa  de  Campo,  where  shots  could  still  be 
heard. 

i  "And  they  wonder  that  people  think  this  way  or  that ! 
I  am  an  anarchist,  do  you  hear,  Mariano?  Every  day 
I  feel  more  revolutionary.  Don't  laugh,  for  it  is  no  jest. 
Poor  Paco,  who  is  a  lamb  of  God,  is  horrified  to  heal 


162  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

me.  'Woman,  think  what  we  are !  We  must  be  on  good 
terms  with  the  royal  house.'  But  I  rise  in  rebellion;  I 
know  them;  a  crowd  of  reprobates.  Why  shouldn't  my 
Paco  have  the  Fleece,  if  the  poor  man  needs  it.  I  tell 
you,  master,  this  cowardly,  meek  country  makes  me  rag- 
ing mad.  We  ought  to  have  what  France  had  in  '93.  If 
I  were  alone,  without  all  these  trifles  of  name  and  posi- 
tion, I  would  do  to-day  something  that  would  stir  peo- 
ple. I'd  throw  a  bomb,  no,  not  a  bomb ;  I'd  get  a  revol- 
ver and " 

"Fire !"  shouted  the  painter,  bursting  into  a  laugh. 

Concha  drew  back  indignantly. 

"Don't  joke,  master.  I'll  go  away.  I'll  slap  you. 
This  is  more  serious  than  you  think.  This  afternoon  is 
no  time  for  jokes." 

But  her  fickle  nature  contradicted  the  seriousness  that 
she  pretended  to  give  her  words,  for  she  smiled  slightly, 
as  if  pleased  at  some  memory. 

"It  wasn't  wholly  a  failure/'  she  said  after  a  long 
pause.  "My  hands  aren't  empty.  The  prime-minister 
didn't  want  to  make  me  his  enemy  and  so  he  offered  me  a 
compensation,  since  the  'Lamb'  affair  was  impossible.  A 
deputy's  chair  at  the  next  election." 

Renovales'  eyes  opened  in  astonishment.  "For  whom 
do  you  want  that  ?  To  whom  is  that  going  to  be  given  ?" 

"To  whom?"  mimicked  Concha  with  mock  astonish- 
ment. "To  whom !  To  whom  do  you  suppose,  you  sim- 
pleton !  Not  for  you,  you  don't  know  anything  about  that 
or  anything  else,  except  your  brushes.  For  Monteverde, 
for  the  doctor,  who  will  do  great  things." 

The  artist's  noisy  laugh  resounded  in  the  silence  of  the 
square. 

"Darwin  a  deputy  of  the  majority!  Darwin  saying 
'Aye'  and  'No/  " 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  163 

And  after  these  exclamations  his  laugh  of  mock  as- 
tonishment continued. 

"Laugh,  you  old  bear!  Open  that  mouth  wider;  wag 
your  apostolic  beard  !  How  funny  you  are !  And  what's 
strange  about  that?  But  don't  laugh  any  longer;  you 
make  me  nervous.  I'll  go  away,  if  you  keep  on  like 
this." 

They  remained  silent  for  a  long  while.  The  countess 
was  not  long  in  forgetting  her  troubles;  her  bird-like 
brain  never  retained  any  one  impression  for  long.  She 
looked  around  her  with  disdainful  eyes,  eager  to  mortify 
the  painter.  Was  that  what  Renovales  raved  over  so? 
Was  there  nothing  more? 

They  began  to  walk  slowly,  going  down  to  the  terraced 
gardens  behind  the  palace.  They  descended  the  moss- 
covered  slopes  that  were  streaked  with  the  black  flint  of 
the  flights  of  stairs. 

The  silence  was  deathlike.  The  water  murmured  as  it 
flowed  from  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  forming  little 
streams  that  trickled  down  hill,  almost  invisible  in  the 
grass.  In  some  shady  spots  there  still  remained  piles 
of  snow,  like  bundles  of  white  wool.  The  shrill  cries  of 
the  birds  sounded  like  the  scratching  of  a  diamond  on 
glass.  At  the  edge  of  the  stairways,  the  pedestals  of 
black,  crumbling  stone  recalled  the  statues  and  urns  they 
had  once  supported.  The  little  gardens,  cut  in  geometric 
figures,  stretched  out  the  Greek  square  of  their  carpet  of 
foliage  on  each  level  of  the  terrace.  In  the  squares, 
the  fountains  spurted  in  pools  surrounded  by  rusted 
railings,  or  flowed  down  triple  layers  with  a  ceaseless 
murmur.  Water  everywhere, — in  the  air,  in  the  ground, 
whispering,  icy,  adding  to  the  cold  impression  of  the 
landscape,  where  the  sun  seemed  a  red  blotch  of  color 
devoid  of  heat. 

They  passed  under   arches  of  vines,  between  huge 


164  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

dying  trees  covered  to  the  top  with  winding  rings  of  ivy 
that  clung  to  the  venerable  trunks,  veneered  with  a  green 
and  yellow  crust.  The  paths  were  bounded  on  one  side 
by  the  slope  of  the  hill,  from  the  top  of  which  came  the 
invisible  tinkling  of  a  bell,  and  where  from  time  to  time 
there  appeared  on  the  blue  background  of  the  sky  the 
massive  outline  of  a  slowly  moving  cow.  On  the  other,  a 
rustic  railing  of  branches  painted  white  bounded  the 
path  and,  beyond  it,  in  the  valley,  lay  the  dark  flower  beds 
with  their  melancholy  solitude  and  their  fountains  that 
wept  day  and  night  in  an  atmosphere  of  old  age  and 
abandon.  The  closely  matted  brambles  stretched  from 
tree  to  tree  along  the  slopes.  The  slender  cypresses,  the 
tall  pines  with  their  straight  trunks,  formed  a  thick  colon- 
nade, a  lattice  through  which  the  sunlight  flitted,  a  false 
unearthly  light,  that  striped  the  ground  with  bands  of 
gold  and  bars  of  shadow. 

The  painter  praised  the  spot  enthusiastically.  It  was 
the  only  corner  for  artists  that  could  be  found  in  Madrid. 
It  was  there  that  the  great  Don  Francisco  had  worked. 
It  seemed  as  though  at  some  turn  in  the  path  they  would 
run  into  Goya,  sitting  before  his  easel,  scowling  ill- 
naturedly  at  some  dainty  duchess  who  was  serving  as  his 
model. 

Modern  clothes  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  this  back- 
ground. Renovales  declared  that  the  correct  apparel  for 
such  a  landscape  was  a  bright  coat,  a  powdered  wig,  silk 
stockings,  walking  beside  a  Directoire  gown. 

The  countess  smiled  as  she  listened  to  the  painter. 
She  looked  about  with  great  curiosity;  that  was  not  a 
bad  walk ;  she  guessed  it  was  the  first  time  she  ever  saw 
it.  Very  pretty !  But  she  was  not  fond  of  the  country. 

To  her  mind  the  best  landscape  was  the  silks  of  a 
drawing  room  and,  as  for  trees,  she  preferred  the  scenery 
at  the  Opera  to  the  accompaniment  of  music. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  165 

"The  country  bores  me,  master.  It  makes  me  so  sad. 
If  you  leave  Nature  alone  to  itself  it  is  very  common- 
place." 

They  entered  a  little  square  in  the  center  of  which  was 
a  pool,  on  the  level  of  the  ground,  with  stone  posts  that 
marked  where  there  had  once  been  a  railing.  The  water, 
swollen  by  the  melting  snow,  was  overflowing  the  stone 
curb,  and  reached  out  in  a  thin  sheet  as  it  started  down 
hill.  The  countess  stopped,  afraid  of  wetting  her  feet. 
The  painter  went  ahead,  putting  his  feet  in  the  driest 
places,  taking  her  hand  to  guide  her,  and  she  followed 
him,  laughing  at  the  obstacle  and  picking  up  her  skirts. 

As  they  continued  their  way  down  another  path,  Reno- 
vales  kept  that  soft  little  hand  in  his,  feeling  its  warmth 
through  the  glove.  She  let  him  hold  it,  as  if  she  did  not 
notice  his  touch,  but  still  with  a  faint  expression  of  mis- 
chievousness  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes.  The  master 
seemed  undecided,  embarrassed,  as  if  he  did  not  know 
how  to  begin. 

"Always  the  same?"  he  asked  weakly.  "Haven't  you 
a  little  charity  for  me  to-day?" 

The  countess  broke  out  in  a  merry  laugh. 

"There  it  comes.  I  was  expecting  it ;  that's  why  I  hesi- 
tated to  come.  In  the  carriage  I  said  to  myself  several 
times :  'My  dear,  you're  making  a,  mistake  in  going  to 
Moncloa;  you  will  be  bored  to  death;  you  may  expect 
declaration  number  one  thousand.' " 

Then  she  assumed  a  tone  of  mock  indignation. 

"But,  master,  can't  you  talk  about  anything  else?  Are 
we  women  condemned  to  be  unable  to  talk  with  a  man 
without  his  feeling  obliged  to  pour  out  a  proposal  ?" 

Renovales  protested.  She  might  say  that  to  other  men, 
but  not  to  him,  for  he  was  in  love  with  her.  He  swore 
it ;  he  would  say  it  on  his  knees,  to  make  her  believe  it. 
Madly  in  love  with  her!  But  she  mimicked  him  gro- 


166  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

tesquely,  raising  one  hand  to  her  breast  and  laughing" 
cruelly. 

"Yes,  I  know,  the  old  story.  There's  no  use  in  your 
repeating  it ;  I  know  it  by  heart.  A  volcano  in  my  breast, 
impossible  to  live  without  you — if  you  do  not  love  me, 
I  will  kill  myself.  They  all  say  the  same  thing.  I  never 
saw  such  a  lack  of  originality.  Master,  for  goodness 
sake,  do  not  be  so  commonplace !  A  man  like  you  saying 
such  things !" 

Renovales  was  crushed  by  her  mocking  mimicry.  But 
Concha,  as  if  she  took  pity  on  him,  hastened  to  add,  in  an 
affectionate  tone: 

"Why  should  you  have  to  be  in  love  with  me?  Do 
you  think  I  shall  esteem  you  less  if  I  relieve  you  from  an 
obligation  that  all  men  who  surround  me  feel  under  ?  I 
like  you,  master;  I  need  to  see  you;  I  should  be  very 
sorry  if  we  quarreled.  I  like  you  as  a  friend;  the  best  of 
all,  the  first.  I  like  you  because  you  are  good;  a  great 
big  boy ;  a  bearded  baby  who  doesn't  know  even  the  least 
bit  about  the  world,  but  who  is  very,  very  talented.  I've 
wanted  for  a  long  time  to  see  you  alone,  to  talk  with  you 
quite  freely,  to  tell  you  this.  I  like  you  as  I  like  no  one 
else.  When  I  am  with  you,  I  feel  a  confidence  such  as  no 
other  man  inspires  in  me.  Good  friends,  brother  and  sis- 
ter, if  you  will.  But  don't  put  on  such  a  gloomy  face ! 
Look  pleasant,  please!  Give  one  of  your  laughs  that 
cheer  my  soul,  master!" 

But  the  master  remained  sullen,  looking  at  the  ground, 
running  the  fingers  of  his  hand  through  his  thick  beard. 

"All  that's  a  lie,  Concha,"  he  said  rudely.  "The 
truth  is  that  you  are  in  love,  you're  mad  over  that  worth- 
less Monteverde." 

The  countess  smiled,  as  if  the  rudeness  of  these  words 
flattered  her. 

"Well,  yes,  Mariano.    We  like  each  other;  I  believe  I 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT*  167 

love  him  as  I  never  loved  any  man.  I  have  never  told 
anyone;  you  are  the  first  one  to  hear  it  from  me,  be- 
cause you  are  my  friend,  because  somehow  or  other  I 
tell  you  everything.  We  like  each  other  or,  rather,  I  like 
him  much  more  than  he  does  me.  There  is  something 
like  gratitude  in  my  love.  I  don't  deceive  myself,  Mari- 
ano !  Thirty-six  years !  I  venture  to  confess  my  age  to 
you.  However,  I  am  still  presentable ;  I  keep  my  youth 
well,  but  he  is  much  younger.  Years  younger  and  I  could 
almost  be  his  mother." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  almost  frightened  at  this 
difference  between  her  lover's  age  and  hers,  but  then  she 
added  with  a  sudden  confidence : 

"He  likes  me,  too,  I  know.  I  am  his  adviser,  his  in- 
spiration ;  he  says  that  with  me  he  feels  a  new  strength 
for  work,  that  he  will  be  a  great  man,  thanks  to  me.  But 
I  like  him  more,  much  more  than  he  does  me ;  there  is 
almost  as  great  a  difference  in  our  affections  as  there  is 
in  our  ages." 

"And  why  do  you  not  love  me?"  said  the  master 
tearfully.  "I  worship  you,  the  tables  would  be  turned. 
I  would  be  the  one  to  surround  you  with  constant 
idolatry,  and  you  would  let  me  worship  you,  caress  you, 
as  I  would  an  idol,  my  head  bowed  at  its  feet." 

Concha  laughed  again,  mocking  the  artist's  hoarse 
voice,  his  passionate  expression,  and  his  eager  eyes. 

"Why  don't  I  love  you?  Master,  don't  be  childish. 
There's  no  use  in  asking  such  things,  you  cannot  dictate 
to  Love.  I  do  not  like  you  as  you  want  me  to,  because 
it  is  impossible.  Be  satisfied  to  be  my  best  friend.  You 
know  I  show  a  confidence  in  you  that  I  do  not  show  to 
Monteverde.  Yes,  I  tell  you  things  I  would  never  tell 
him." 

"But  the  other  part !"  exclaimed  the  painter  violently. 


168  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"What  I  need,  what  I  am  hungry  for, — you,  your  beauty, 
real  love !" 

"Master,  contain  yourself,"  she  said  with  affected  mod* 
esty.  "How  well  I  know  you !  You're  going  to  say  some 
of  those  horrid  things  that  men  always  say  when  they. 
rave  over  a  woman.  I'm  going  away  so  as  not  to  hear 
you." 

Then  she  added  with  maternal  seriousness,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  reprimand  his  violence : 

"I  am  not  so  crazy  as  people  think.  I  consider  the 
consequences  of  my  actions  carefully.  Mariano,  look 
at  yourself,  think  of  your  position.  A  wife,  a  daughter 
who  will  marry  one  of  these  days,  the  prospect  of  being 
a  grandfather.  And  you  still  think  of  such  follies!  I 
could  not  accede  to  your  proposal  even  if  I  loved  you. 
How  terrible!  To  deceive  Josephina,  the  friend  of  my 
school-days!  Poor  thing,  so  gentle,  so  kind, — always 
ill.  No,  Mariano,  never.  A  man  cannot  enter  such  com- 
promising affairs,  unless  he  is  free.  I  could  never  feel 
like  loving  you.  Friends,  nothing  more  than  friends !" 

"Well,  we  will  not  be  that,"  exclaimed  Renovales  im- 
petuously. "I  will  leave  your  house  forever.  I  will  not 
see  you  any  longer.  I  will  do  anything  to  forget  you.  It 
is  an  intolerable  torment.  My  life  will  be  calmer  if  I  do 
not  see  you." 

"You  will  not  go  away,"  said  Concha  quietly,  certain 
of  her  power.  "You  will  remain  beside  me  just  as  you 
always  have,  if  you  really  like  me,  and  I  shall  have  in 
you  my  best  friend.  Don't  be  a  baby,  master,  you  will 
see  that  there  is  something  charming  about  our  friend- 
ship that  you  do  not  understand  now.  I  shall  give  you 
something  that  the  rest  do  not  know, — intimacy,  confi- 
dence." 

And  as  she  said  this,  she  put  one  hand  on  the  painter's 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  169 

arm  and  drew  closer  to  him,  searching  him  with  her  eyes 
in  which  there  was  a  strange,  mysterious  light 

A  horn  sounded  near  them;  there  was  swift  rush  of 
heavy  wheels.  An  automobile  shot  past  them  at  full 
speed,  following  the  highroad.  Renovales  tried  to  make 
out  the  figures  in  the  car,  hardly  larger  than  dolls  in  the 
distance.  Perhaps  it  was  Lopez  de  Sosa,  who  was  driv- 
ing, perhaps  his  wife  and  daughter  were  those  two  little 
figures,  wrapped  in  veils,  who  occupied  the  seats. 

The  possibility  of  Josephina's  having  passed  through 
the  background  of  the  landscape  without  seeing  him,, 
without  noticing  that  he  was  there,  forgetful  of  every- 
thing, an  imploring  lover,  overcame  him  with  the  sense 
of  remorse. 

They  remained  motionless  for  a  long  while  in  silence, 
leaning  on  the  rough  wooden  railing,  watching  through 
the  colonnade  of  the  trees  the  bright,  cherry-red  sun,  as 
it  sank,  lighting  up  the  horizon  with  a  blaze  of  fire.  The 
leaden  clouds,  seeing  it  on  the  point  of  death,  assailed  it 
with  treacherous  greed. 

Concha  watched  the  sunset  with  the  interest  that  a 
sight  but  seldom  seen  arouses. 

"Look  at  that  huge  cloud,  master.  How  black  it  is! 
It  looks  like  a  dragon ;  no,  a  hippopotamus ;  see  its  round 
paws,  like  towers.  How  it  runs !  It's  going  to  eat  the 
sun.  It's  eating  it !  It  has  swallowed  it  now !" 

The  landscape  grew  dark.  The  sun  had  disappeared 
inside  of  that  monster  that  filled  the  horizon.  Its  waving 
back  was  edged  with  silver,  and  as  if  it  could  not  hold 
the  burning  star;  it  broke  below,  pouring  out  a  rain  of 
pale  rays.  Then,  burned  by  this  digestion,  it  vanished  in 
smoke,  was  torn  into  black  tufts,  and  once  more  the 
red  disc  appeared,  bathing  sky  and  earth  with  gold, 
peopling  the  water  of  the  pools  with  restless  fiery  fishes. 

Renovales,  leaning  on  the  railing  with  one  elbow  be- 


170  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

side  the  countess,  breathed  her  subtle  fragrance,  felt  the 
warm  touch  of  her  firm  body. 

"Let's  go  back,  master,"  she  said  with  a  suggestion  of 
uneasiness  in  her  voice.  "I  feel  cold.  Besides,  with  a 
companion  like  you,  it's  impossible  to  stay  still." 

And  she  hastened  her  step,  realizing  from  her  experi- 
ence with  men  the  danger  of  remaining  alone  with  Reno- 
vales.  His  pale,  excited  face  warned  her  that  he  was 
likely  to  make  some  reckless,  impetuous  advance. 

In  the  square  of  Cano  Gordo  they  passed  a  couple 
going  slowly  down  the  hill,  very  close  together,  not  yet 
daring  to  walk  arm  in  arm,  but  ready  to  put  their  arms 
around  each  other's  waists  as  soon  as  they  disappeared 
in  the  next  path.  The  young  man  carried  his  cloak  under 
his  arm,  as  proudly  as  a  gallant  in  the  old  comedies ;  she, 
small  and  pale,  without  any  beauty  except  that  of  youth, 
was  wrapped  in  a  poor  cloak  and  walked  with  her  simple 
eyes  fixed  on  her  companion's. 

"Some  student  with  his  girl,"  said  Renovales.  "They 
are  happier  than  we  are,  Concha." 

"We  are  getting  old,  master,"  she  said  with  feigned 
sadness,  excluding  herself  from  old  age,  loading  the 
whole  burden  of  years  on  her  companion. 

Renovales  turned  toward  her  in  a  final  outburst  of  pro- 
test. 

"Why  should  I  not  be  as  happy  as  that  boy?  Haven't 
I  a  right  to  it  ?  Concha,  you  do  not  know  who  I  am ;  you 
forget  it,  accustomed  as  you  are  to  treat  me  like  a  child. 
I  am  Renovales,  the  painter,  the  famous  master.  I  am 
known  all  over  the  world." 

And  he  spoke  of  his  fame  with  brutal  indelicacy,  grow- 
ing more  and  more  irritated  at  her  coldness,  displaying 
his  renown  like  a  mantle  of  light  that  should  blind  women 
and  make  them  fall  at  his  feet.  And  a  man  like  him  had 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  171 

to  submit  to  being  put  off  for  that  simpleton  of  a  doc- 
tor? 

The  countess  smiled  with  pity.  Her  eyes,  too,  revealed 
a  sort  of  compassion.  The  fool!  The  child!  How  ab- 
surd men  of  talent  were! 

"Yes,  you  are  a  great  man,  master.  That  is  why  I  am 
proud  of  your  friendship.  I  even  admit  that  it  gives  me 
some  importance.  I  like  you.  I  feel  admiration  for 
you/' 

"No,  not  admiration,  Concha,  love!  To  belong  to  each 
other !  Complete  love." 

She  continued  to  laugh. 

"Oh,  my  boy;  Love!" 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  speak  to  him  ironically.  Love  does 
not  distinguish  talents ;  it  is  ignorant  and  therefore  boasts 
of  its  blindness.  It  only  perceives  the  fragrance  of  youth, 
of  life  in  its  flower. 

"We  shall  be  friends,  Mariano,  friends  and  nothing 
more.  You  will  grow  accustomed  to  it  and  find  our 
affection  dear.  Don't  be  material;  it  doesn't  seem  as  if 
you  were  an  artist.  Idealism,  master,  that  is  what  you 
need." 

And  she  continued  to  talk  to  him  from  the  heights  of 
her  pity,  until  they  parted  near  the  place  where  her  car- 
riage was  waiting  for  her. 

"Friends,  Mariano,  nothing  more  than  friends,  but  true 
friends." 

When  Concha  had  gone,  Renovales  walked  in  the 
shadows  of  the  twilight,  gesticulating  and  clenching  his 
fists,  until  he  left  Moncloa.  Finding  himself  alone,  he 
was  again  filled  with  wrath  and  insulted  the  countess  men- 
tally, now  that  he  was  free  from  the  loving  subjection 
that  he  suffered  in  her  presence.  How  she  amused  herself 
with  him !  How  his  friends  would  laugh  to  see  him  help- 
lessly submissive  to  that  woman  who  had  belonged  to  so 


172  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

many !  His  pride  made  him  insist  on  conquering  her,  at 
any  cost,  even  of  humiliation  and  brutality.  It  was  an 
affair  of  honor  to  make  her  his,  even  if  it  were  only  once, 
and  then  to  take  revenge  by  repelling  her,  throwing  her 
at  his  feet,  and  saying  with  a  sovereign  air,  "That  is  what 
I  do  to  people  who  resist  me." 

But  then  he  realized  his  weakness.  He  would  always 
be  beaten  by  that  woman  who  looked  at  him  coldly,  who 
never  lost  her  calm  and  considered  him  an  inferior  be- 
ing. His  dejection  made  him  think  of  his  family,  of  his 
sick  wife,  and  the  duties  that  bound  him  to  her,  and  he 
felt  the  bitter  joy  of  the  man  who  sacrifices  himself,  tak- 
ing up  his  cross. 

His  mind  was  made  up.  He  would  flee  from  the 
woman.  He  would  not  see  her  again. 


Ill 


AND  he  did  not  see  her ;  he  did  not  see  her  for  two  days. 
But  on  the  third  there  came  a  letter  in  a  long  blue  en- 
velope scented  with  a  perfume  that  made  him  tremble. 

The  countess  complained  of  his  absence  in  affectionate 
terms.  She  needed  to  see  him,  she  had  many  things  to  tell 
him.  A  real  love-letter  which  the  artist  hastened  to  hide, 
for  fear  that  if  any  one  read  it,  he  would  suspect  what 
was  not  yet  true. 

Renovales  was  indignant. 

"I  will  go  to  see  her,"  he  said  to  himself,  walking  up 
and  down  the  studio.  "But  it  will  be  only  to  give  her  a 
piece  of  my  mind,  and  have  done  with  her  once  and  for 
all.  If  she  thinks  she  is  going  to  play  with  me,  she  is  mis- 
taken ;  she  doesn't  know  that,  when  I  want  to  be,  I  am  like 
stone." 

Poor  master !  While  in  one  corner  of  his  mind  he  was 
formulating  this  cruel  determination  to  be  a  man  of  stone, 
in  the  other  a  sweet  voice  was  murmuring  seductively: 

"Go  quickly,  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity.  Per- 
haps she  has  repented.  She  is  waiting  for  you;  she  is 
going  to  be  yours." 

And  the  artist  hastened  to  the  countess's  anxiously. 
Nothing.  She  complained  of  his  absence  with  affected 
sadness.  She  liked  him  so  much!  She  needed  to  see 
him,  she  could  not  have  any  peace  as  long  as  she  felt  that 
he  was  offended  with  her  on  account  of  the  other  after- 
noon. And  they  spent  nearly  two  hours  together  in  the 
private  room  she  used  as  an  office,  until  at  the  end  of  the 
afternoon  the  serious  friends  of  the  countess  began  to 

173 


174  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

arrive,  her  coterie  of  mute  worshipers  and  last  of  all 
Monteverde  with  the  calm  of  a  man  who  has  nothing  to 
fear. 

The  painter  left  the  house.  Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary 
had  happened  except  that  he  had  twice  kissed  the  coun- 
tess's hand;  the  conventional  caress  and  nothing  more. 
Whenever  he  tried  to  go  farther,  moving  his  lips  along  her 
arm,  she  checked  him  imperiously. 

"I  shall  be  angry,  master,  and  not  receive  you  any  more 
alone !  You  are  not  keeping  the  agreement !" 

Renovales  protested.  They  had  not  made  any  agree- 
ment ;  but  Concha  managed  to  calm  him  instantly  by  ask- 
ing about  Milita,  praising  her  beauty,  inquiring  for  poor 
Josephina,  so  good,  so  lovable,  showing  great  concern 
for  her  health  and  promising  to  call  on  her  soon.  And 
the  master  was  restrained,  tormented  by  remorse,  not 
daring  to  make  any  new  advances,  until  his  discomfort 
had  disappeared. 

He  continued  to  visit  the  countess,  as  before.  He  felt 
that  he  must  see  her;  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  her 
enthusiastic  praise  of  his  artistic  merits. 

Sometimes  the  impetuous  nature  of  his  youthful  days 
awakened  and  he  longed  to  rid  himself  of  this  shameful 
chain.  The  woman  had  bewitched  him ;  she  sent  for  him 
without  any  reason,  she  seemed  to  delight  in  making  him 
suffer,  she  needed  him  for  a  plaything.  She  spoke  of 
Monteverde  and  their  love  with  quiet  cynicism,  as  if  the 
doctor  were  her  husband.  She  had  to  confide  the  secrets 
of  her  life  to  some  one,  with  that  imperious  naivete  that 
forces  the  guilty  to  confess.  Little  by  little  she  let  the 
master  into  the  secret  of  her  passion,  telling  him  unblush- 
ingly  of  the  most  intimate  details  of  their  meetings,  which 
were  often  in  her  own  house.  They  took  advantage  of  the 
blindness  of  the  count,  who  seemed  almost  stunned  by  his 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  175 

failure  to  receive  the  Fleece ;  they  took  a  morbid  delight 
in  the  danger  of  being  surprised. 

"I  tell  you  this,  Mariano,  I  don't  know  why  it  is  I 
feel  as  I  do  toward  you ;  I  like  you  as  a  brother.  No,  not 
as  a  brother,  rather  as  a  confidential  woman  friend." 

When  Renovales  was  alone,  he  despised  Concha's 
frankness.  It  was  just  as  people  believed ;  she  was  very 
attractive,  very  pretty,  but  absolutely  lacking  in  scruples. 
As  for  himself,  he  heaped  insults  on  himself  in  the  slang 
of  his  Bohemian  days,  comparing  himself  with  all  the 
horned  animals  he  could  think  of. 

"I  won't  go  there  again.  It's  disgraceful.  A  pretty 
part  you  are  playing,  master!" 

But  he  had  hardly  been  absent  two  days  when  Marie, 
the  Countess's  French  maid,  appeared  with  the  scented 
letter,  or  it  arrived  in  the  mail,  where  it  stood  out  scan- 
dalously among  the  other  envelopes  of  the  master's  cor- 
respondence. 

"Curse  that  woman!"  exclaimed  Renovales,  hastening 
to  hide  the  showy  note.  "What  a  lack  of  prudence. 
One  of  these  fine  days,  Josephina  will  discover  these  let- 
ters." 

Cotoner,  in  his  blind  devotion  to  his  idol  whom  he  con- 
sidered irresistible,  supposed  that  the  Alberca  woman 
was  madly  in  love  with  the  master  and  shook  his  head 
sadly. 

'This  will  have  a  bad  end,  Mariano.  You  ought  to 
break  with  her.  The  peace  of  your  home!  You  are 
piling  up  trouble  for  yourself." 

The  letters  were  always  alike;  endless  complaints  at 
his  short  absences.  "Cher  maitre,  I  could  not  sleep  last 
night,  thinking  of  you,"  and  she  ended  with  "Your  ad- 
mirer and  good  friend,  Coquillerosse,"  a  noin  de  guerre 
she  had  adopted  for  her  correspondence  with  the  artist. 

She  wrote  in  a  disordered  style,  at  unusual  hours,  just 


176  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

as  her  fancy  and  her  abnormal  nervous  system  prompted. 
Sometimes  she  dated  her  letter  at  three  in  the  morning, 
she  could  not  sleep,  got  out  of  bed  and  to  pass  the  sleep- 
less hours  filled  four  sheets  of  paper  (with  the  facility 
of  despair)  in  her  fine  hand,  addressed  to  her  good 
friend,  talking  to  him  of  the  count,  of  what  her  ac- 
quaintances said,  telling  him  the  latest  gossip  about  the 
Court,  lamenting  the  doctor's  coldness.  At  other  times, 
there  were  only  four  brief,  desperate  lines.  "Come  at 
once,  dear  Mariano.  A  very  urgent  matter." 

And  the  master,  leaving  his  tasks  early  in  the  morning, 
ran  to  the  countess'  house,  where  she  received  him  still 
in  bed  in  her  fragrant  chamber  which  the  gentleman  with 
honorary  crosses  had  not  entered  for  many  years. 

The  painter  came  in  in  great  anxiety,  disturbed  at  the 
possibility  of  some  terrible  event,  and  Concha,  tossing 
about  between  the  embroidered  sheets,  tucking  in  the 
golden  wisps  of  hair  that  escaped  from  her  lace  cap, 
talked  and  talked,  as  incoherently  as  a  bird  sings,  as  if 
the  silence  of  the  night  had  hopelessly  confused  her  ideas. 
A  great  idea  had  occurred  to  her;  during  her  sleep  she 
had  thought  out  an  absolutely  original  scientific  theory 
that  would  cjelight  Monteverde.  And  she  explained  it 
earnestly  to  the  master,  who  nodded  his  approval  with- 
out understanding  a  word,  thinking  it  was  a  pity  to  see 
such  an  attractive  mouth  uttering  such  follies. 

At  other  times  she  would  talk  to  him  about  the  speech 
she  was  preparing  for  a  fair  of  the  Woman's  Associa- 
tion, the  magnum  opus  of  her  presidency;  and  drawing 
her  ivory  arms  from  under  the  sheet  with  a  calmness 
that  dazed  Renovales,  she  would  pick  up  from  the  near- 
by table  some  sheets  of  paper  scribbled  with  pencil,  and 
ask  her  friend  to  tell  her  who  was  the  greatest  painter 
in  the  world,  for  she  had  left  a  blank  to  fill  in  with  this 
name. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  177 

After  an  hour  of  incessant  chatter  while  the  artist 
watched  her  silently  with  greedy  eyes,  he  finally  came 
to  the  urgent  matter,  the  desperate  summons  that  had 
made  the  master  leave  his  work.  It  was  always  an  affair 
of  life  or  death,  compromises  in  which  her  honor  was 
at  stake.  Sometimes  she  wanted  him  to  paint  some 
little  thing  on  the  fan  of  a  foreign  lady  who  was  eager 
to  take  away  from  Spain  some  souvenir  of  the  great 
master.  The  person  in  question  had  asked  her  at  a 
diplomatic  soiree  the  night  before,  knowing  her  friend- 
ship with  Renovales.  Or  she  had  sent  for  him  to  ask 
him  for  some  little  sketch,  a  daub,  any  one  of  the  little 
things  that  lay  in  the  corner  of  his  studio  for  a  bazaar 
of  the  Association  for  the  Benefit  of  Fallen  Women, 
whom  the  countess  and  her  friend^  were  very  eager  to 
rescue. 

"Don't  put  on  such  a  wry  face,  master,  don't  be  stingy. 
You  must  expect  to  sacrifice  something  for  friendship. 
Everybody  thinks  that  I  have  great  power  over  the 
famous  artist,  and  they  ask  me  favors  and  are  con- 
stantly getting  me  into  difficulty.  They  don't  know  you, 
they  don't  realize  how  perverse,  how  rebellious  you  are, 
you  horrid  man!" 

And  she  let  him  kiss  her  hand,  smiling  condescending- 
ly. But  as  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  lips  and  his  beard  on 
her  arm  she  struggled  to  free  herself,  half-laughing, 
half-trembling. 

"Let  me  go,  Mariano!  I'll  scream!  I'll  call  Marie! 
I  won't  receive  you  again  in  my  bedroom.  You  aren't 
worthy  of  being  trusted.  Quiet,  master,  or  I'll  tell  Jose- 
phina  everything." 

Sometimes  when  Renovales  came,  full  of  alarm  at  her 
summons,  he  found  her  pale,  with  dark  circles  under 
her  eyes,  as  if  she  had  spent  the  night  weeping.  When 
she  saw  the  master  her  tears  began  to  flow  again.  It  was 


178  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

pique,  deep  pain  at  Monteverde's  coldness.  He  passed 
whole  days  without  seeing  her;  he  even  went  so  far  as 
to  say  that  women  are  a  hindrance  to  serious  study.  Oh, 
these  scholars !  And  she,  madly  devoted  to  him,  submis- 
sive as  a  slave,  putting  up  with  his  whimsical  moods, 
worshiping  him  with  that  ardent  passion  of  a  woman 
who  is  older  than  her  lover  and  appreciates  her  own  in- 
feriority ! 

"Oh,  Renovales.  Never  fall  in  love.  It  is  hell.  You 
do  not  know  the  happiness  you  enjoy  in  not  understand- 
ing these  things." 

But  the  master,  indifferent  to  her  tears,  enraged  by 
her  confidences,  walked  up  and  down  gesticulating,  just 
as  if  he  were  in  his  studio,  and  he  spoke  to  the  countess 
with  brutal  frankness,  as  he  would  to  a  woman  who  had 
revealed  all  her  secrets  and  weaknesses.  What  differ- 
ence did  all  that  make  to  him?  Had  she  sent  for  him  to 
tell  him  such  stuff  ?  She  grieved  with  childish  sighs  from 
the  bed.  She  was  alone  in  the  world,  she  was  very  un- 
happy. The  master  was  her  only  friend;  he  was  her 
father,  her  brother.  To  whom  could  she  tell  her  troubles 
if  not  to  him?  And  taking  courage  at  the  painter's  si- 
lence who  finally  was  moved  by  her  tears,  she  recovered 
her  boldness  and  expressed  her  wish.  He  must  go  to 
Monteverde,  give  him  a  good,  heart-to-heart  lecture,  so 
that  he  would  be  good  and  not  make  her  suffer.  The 
doctor  respected  him  highly;  he  was  one  of  his  greatest 
admirers;  she  was  certain  that  a  few  words  of  the 
master  would  be  enough  to  bring  him  back  like  a  lamb. 
He  must  show  him  that  she  was  not  alone,  that  she  had 
some  one  to  defend  her,  that  no  one  could  make  sport  of 
her  with  impunity. 

But  before  she  finished  her  request,  the  painter  was 
walking  around  the  bed  waving  his  arms,  cursing  in  the 
violence  of  his  excitement. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  179 

"That's  the  last  straw!  One  of  these  days  you'll  be 
asking  me  to  shine  his  boots.  Are  you  mad,  woman? 
What  are  you  thinking  of?  You  have  enough  accom- 
modating people  already  in  the  count.  Don't  drag  me 
into  it !" 

But  she  rolled  over  in  bed,  weeping  disconsolately. 
She  had  no  friends  left !  The  master  was  like  the  others ; 
if  he  would  not  accede  to  her  requests,  their  friendship 
was  over.  All  talk,  oaths,  and  then  not  the  least  sacri- 
fice! 

Suddenly  she  sat  up,  frowning  angrily  with  the  cold- 
ness of  an  offended  queen.  She  knew  him  at  last,  she 
had  made  a  mistake  in  counting  on  him.  And  as  Reno- 
vales,  confused  at  her  anger,  tried  to  offer  excuse,  she 
interrupted  him  haughtily. 

"Will  you,  or  will  you  not?    One,  two " 

Yes,  he  would  do  what  she  wanted ;  he  had  sunk  so  low 
that  it  did  not  matter  if  he  went  a  little  farther.  He 
would  lecture  the  doctor,  throwing  in  his  face  his  stu- 
pidity in  scorning  such  happiness, — he  said  this  with  all 
his  heart,  his  voice  trembling  with  envy.  What  else  did 
his  fair  despot  want?  She  might  ask  without  fear.  If 
it  was  necessary  he  would  challenge  the  count,  with  all  his 
decorations,  to  single  combat  and  would  kill  him  so  that 
she  might  be  free  to  join  her  little  doctor. 

"You  joker,"  cried  Concha,  smiling  at  her  triumph. 
"You  are  as  nice  as  can  be  but  you  are  very  perverse. 
Come  here,  you  horrid  man." 

And  lifting  a  lock  of  his  heavy  hair  with  her  hand,  she 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  laughing  at  the  start  the 
painter  gave  at  her  caress.  He  felt  his  legs  trembling, 
then  his  arms  strove  to  embrace  the  warm,  scented  body, 
that  seemed  to  slip  from  him  in  its  delicate  covering. 

"It  was  on  the  forehead,"  cried  Concha  in  protest. 


180  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"A  sister's  caress,  Mariano.  Stop !  You're  hurting  me ! 
I'll  call!" 

And  she  called,  realizing  her  weakness,  seeing  that 
she  was  on  the  point  of  being  overcome  in  his  fierce, 
masterly  grasp.  The  electric  bell  sounded  out  of  the 
maze  of  corridors  and  rooms  and  the  door  opened. 
Marie  entered  in  a  black  dress  with  a  white  apron  and 
a  lace  cap,  discreet  and  silent.  Her  pale,  smiling  face, 
accustomed  to  see  everything,  to  guess  everything,  did 
not  reveal  the  slightest  impression. 

The  countess  stretched  out  her  hand  to  Renovales, 
calmly  and  affectionately,  as  if  the  entrance  of  the  maid 
had  found  her  saying  good-by.  She  was  sorry  that  he 
must  go  so  soon,  she  would  see  him  in  the  evening  at 
the  Opera. 

When  the  painter  breathed  the  air  of  the  street  and 
jostled  against  the  people,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  awaken- 
ing from  a  nightmare.  He  loathed  himself.  "You're 
showing  off  finely,  master."  His  weakness  that  made 
him  give  in  to  all  of  the  countess's  demands,  his  base 
acquiescence  in  serving  as  an  intermediary  between  her 
and  her  lover  was  sickening  now.  But  he  still  felt  the 
touch  of  her  kiss  on  his  forehead;  he  still  breathed  the 
atmosphere  of  the  bedroom,  heavy  with  perfume.  Op- 
timism overcame  him.  The  affair  was  not  going  badly. 
However  disagreeable  the  path  was,  it  would  lead  to 
the  realization  of  his  desire. 

Many  evenings  Renovales  went  to  the  Opera,  in  obe- 
dience to  Concha,  who  wanted  to  see  him,  and  spent 
whole  acts  in  the  back  of  her  box,  conversing  with  her. 
Milita  laughed  at  this  change  in  the  habits  of  her  father, 
who  used  to  go  to  bed  early,  so  as  to  be  able  to  work 
early  in  the  morning.  She  was  the  one  who,  charged 
with  the  household  affairs  on  account  of  her  mother's 
constant  illness,  helped  him  to  put  on  his  dress-coat,  and 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  181 

amid  caresses  and  laughter  combed  his  hair  and  ad- 
justed his  tie. 

"Papa,  dear.  I  shouldn't  know  you,  you're  getting 
dissipated.  When  are  you  going  to  take  me  with  you?" 

The  artist  excused  himself  seriously.  It  was  a  duty 
of  his  profession;  artists  must  go  into  society.  And  as 
for  taking  her  with  him — some  other  time.  He  had  to 
go  alone  this  time,  he  had  to  talk  to  a  great  many  people 
at  the  theater. 

Another  change  took  place  in  him  that  provoked  joy- 
ful comments  on  the  part  of  Milita.  Papa  was  getting 
young. 

Under  irreverent  trimmings,  every  week  his  hair  be- 
came shorter,  his  beard  diminished  until  only  a  light 
remnant  remained  of  that  tangled  growth  that  gave  him 
such  a  ferocious  appearance.  He  did  not  want  to  look 
like  other  men,  he  must  preserve  the  exterior  that 
stamped  him  as  an  artist,  so  that  people  might  not  pass 
by  the  great  Reno  vales  without  recognizing  him.  But 
he  managed,  while  keeping  within  this  desire,  to  ap- 
proach and  mingle  with  the  fashionably  dressed  young 
men  who  frequented  the  countess's  house. 

Other  people  too  noticed  this  change.  Students  in 
the  School  of  Fine  Arts  pointed  him  out  from  the  gal- 
lery of  the  Opera-house  or  stopped  on  the  sidewalk  when 
they  saw  him  at  night,  with  a  shining  silk  hat  on  his 
carefully  trimmed  hair  and  the  expanse  of  shirt-front 
showing  in  his  unbuttoned  overcoat.  The  boys  in  their 
simple  admiration  imagined  the  great  master  thunder- 
ing before  his  easel,  as  savage,  fierce  and  intractable  as 
Michael  Angelo  in  his  studio.  And  so  when  they  saw 
him  looking  so  differently,  their  eyes  followed  him  en- 
viously. "What  a  good  time  the  master  is  having !"  And 
they  fancied  the  great  ladies  disputing  over  him,  Believing 


182  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

in  perfect  faith  that  no  woman  could  resist  a  man  who 
painted  so  well. 

His  enemies,  established  artists  but  who  were  inferior 
to  him,  growled  in  their  conversations.  "Four-flusher, 
prig!  He  wasn't  satisfied  with  making  so  much  money 
and  now  he's  playing  the  sport  among  the  aristocracy, 
to  pick  up  more  portraits,  to  get  all  he  can  out  of  his 
signature." 

Cotoner,  who  sometimes  stayed  at  the  house  in  the 
evenings,  to  keep  the  ladies  company,  smiled  sadly  as  he 
saw  him  leave,  shaking  his  head.  "It's  bad.  Mariano 
married  too  soon.  Now  that  he  is  almost  an  old  man, 
he's  doing  what  he  didn't  do  in  his  youth  in  his  fever 
for  work  and  glory."  Many  people  were  laughing  at  him 
already,  divining  his  passion  for  the  Alberca  woman,  that 
love  without  practical  results,  that  made  him  live  with 
her  and  Monteverde,  acting  as  a  good-natured  mediator, 
a  tolerant  kindly  father.  When  the  famous  master  took 
off  his  mask  of  fierceness,  he  was  a  poor  fellow  about 
whom  people  talked  with  pity:  they  compared  him  with 
Hercules,  dressed  as  a  woman  and  spinning  at  the  feet 
of  his  fair  seducer. 

He  had  contracted  a  close  friendship  with  Monteverde 
as  a  result  of  meeting  him  so  often  at  the  countess's.  He 
no  longer  seemed  foolish  and  unattractive.  Renovales 
found  in  him  something  of  the  woman  he  loved  and 
therefore  his  company  was  pleasing.  He  experienced 
that  calm  attraction,  free  from  jealousy,  that  the  hus- 
band of  a  mistress  inspires  in  some  men.  They  sat  to- 
gether at  the  theater,  went  to  walk,  conversing  amiably, 
and  the  doctor  frequently  visited  the  artist's  studio  in 
the  afternoon.  This  intimacy  quite  disconcerted  people, 
for  they  could  no  longer  tell  with  certainty  which  one 
was  the  Alberca  woman's  master  and  which  the  aspirant, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  183 

even  going  so  far  as  to  believe  that  by  a  mutual  agree- 
ment they  all  three  lived  in  an  ideal  world. 

Monteverde  admired  the  master  and  the  latter,  from 
his  years  and  the  superiority  of  his  fame,  assumed  a 
paternal  authority  over  him.  He  chided  him  when  the 
countess  complained  of  him. 

"Women !"  the  doctor  would  say  with  a  bored  expres- 
sion. "You  don't  know  what  they  are,  master.  They  are 
only  a  hindrance  to  obstruct  a  man's  career.  You  have 
been  successful  because  you  haven't  let  them  dominate 
you  because  you  are  strong." 

And  the  poor  strong  man  looked  at  Monteverde  nar- 
rowly suspecting  that  he  was  making  sport  of  him.  He 
felt  tempted  to  knock  him  down  at  the  thought  that  the 
doctor  scorned  what  he  craved  so  keenly. 

Concha  was  more  communicative  with  the  master.  She 
confessed  to  him  what  she  had  never  dared  to  tell  the 
doctor. 

"I  tell  you  everything,  Mariano.  I  cannot  live  without 
seeing  you.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  The  doctor  is 
a  sort  of  husband  to  me  and  you  are  the  lover  of  my 
heart.  Don't  get  excited ;  don't  move  or  I'll  call.  I  have 
spoken  from  my  heart.  I  like  you  too  much  to  think 
of  the  coarse  things  you  want." 

Sometimes  Renovales  found  her  excited,  nervous, 
speaking  hoarsely,  working  her  delicate  fingers  as  if  she 
wanted  to  scratch  the  air.  They  were  terrible  days  that 
stirred  up  the  whole  house.  Marie  ran  from  room  to 
room  with  her  silent  step,  pursued  by  the  ringing  of  the 
bells;  the  count  slipped  out  of  doors,  like  a  frightened 
school-boy.  Concha  was  bored,  felt  tired  of  everything, 
hated  her  life.  When  the  painter  appeared  she  would 
almost  throw  herself  in  his  arms. 

"Take  me  out  of  here,  Mariano;  I'm  tired  of  it,  I'm 
dying.  This  life  is  killing  me.  My  husband !  He  doesn't 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

count.  My  friends !  Fools  that  flay  me  as  soon  as  I  leave 
them.  The  doctor!  as  untrustworthy  as  a  weathercock. 
All  those  men  in  my  coterie,  idiots.  Master,  have  pity 
on  me.  Take  me  far  away  from  here.  You  must  know 
some  other  world;  artists  know  everything." 

If  she  only  was  not  such  a  familiar  figure  and  if 
people  only  did  not  know  the  master  in  Madrid!  In 
her  nervous  excitement  she  formed  the  wildest  projects. 
She  wanted  to  go  out  at  night  arm  in  arm  with  Reno- 
vales.  She  in  a  shawl  and  a  kerchief  over  her  head 
and  he  in  a  cape  and  a  slouch  hat.  She  would  be  his 
grisette;  she  would  imitate  the  carriage  and  stride  of  a 
woman  of  the  streets  and  they  would  go  to  the  lowest 
districts  like  two  night-hawks,  and  they  would  drink, 
would  get  into  a  brawl;  he  would  defend  her  and  they 
would  go  and  spend  the  night  in  the  police  station. 

The  painter  looked  shocked.  What  nonsense!  But 
she  insisted  on  her  wish. 

"Laugh,  master,  open  that  great  mouth  of  yours,  you 
ugly  thing.  What  is  strange  about  what  I  said?  You, 
with  all  your  artist's  hair  and  soft  hats,  are  humdrum, 
a  peaceful  soul  that  is  incapable  of  doing  anything  orig- 
inal in  order  to  amuse  yourself." 

When  she  thought  of  the  couple  they  had  seen  one 
afternoon  at  Moncloa,  she  grew  melancholy  and  senti- 
mental. She,  too,  thought  it  would  be  fun  to  play  the 
grisette,  to  walk  arm  in  arm  with  the  master  as  if  she 
were  a  poor  dressmaker  and  he  a  clerk,  to  end  the 
trip  in  a  picnic  park,  and  he  would  give  her  a  ride  in 
the  green  swing,  while  she  screamed  with  pleasure,  as 
she  went  up  and  down  with  her  skirts  whirling  around 
her  feet.  That  was  not  foolishness.  Just  the  simplest, 
most  rustic  pleasure ! 

What  a  pity  that  they  were  both  so  well  known.  But 
what  they  would  do,  at  least,  was  to  disguise  themselves 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  185 

some  morning  and  go  house-hunting  in  some  low  quarter, 
like  the  Rastro,  as  if  they  were  a  newly  married  couple. 
No  one  would  recognize  them  in  that  part  of  Madrid. 
Agreed,  master? 

And  the  master  approved  of  everything.  But  the  next 
day,  Concha  received  him  with  confusion,  biting  her  lips, 
until  at  last  she  broke  out  into  hearty  laughter  at  the 
recollection  of  the  follies  she  had  proposed. 

"How  you  must  laugh  at  me !  Some  days  I  am  per- 
fectly crazy." 

Renovales  did  not  conceal  his  assent.  Yes,  she  was  a 
trifle  crazy.  But  with  all  her  absurdities  that  made  him 
alternate  between  hope  and  despair,  she  was  more  at- 
tractive, with  her  merry  nonsense,  and  her  transitory  fits 
of  anger,  than  the  woman  at  home,  implacable,  silent, 
shunning  him  with  ceaseless  repugnance,  but  following 
him  everywhere  with  her  weeping,  uncanny  eyes,  that 
became  as  cutting  as  steel,  as  soon  as,  out  of  sympathy 
or  remorse,  he  gave  the  least  evidence  of  familiarity. 

Oh,  what  a  heavy,  intolerable  comedy!  Before  his 
daughter  and  his  friends  they  had  to  talk  to  each  other, 
and  he,  looking  away,  so  that  their  eyes  might  not 
meet,  scolded  her  gently,  for  not  following  the  advice  of 
the  doctors.  At  first  they  had  said  it  was  neurasthenia, 
now  it  was  diabetes,  that  was  increasing  the  invalid's 
weakness.  The  master  lamented  the  passive  resistance 
she  opposed  to  all  their  curative  methods.  She  would 
follow  them  for  a  few  days  and  then  give  them  up  with 
calm  obstinacy.  Her  health  was  better  than  they  thought : 
doctors  could  not  cure  her  trouble. 

At  night,  when  they  entered  the  bed-chamber,  a  deathly 
silence  fell  on  them;  a  leaden  wall  seemed  to  rise  be- 
tween their  bodies.  Here  they  no  longer  had  to  dis- 
semble; they  looked  at  each  other  face  to  face  with 
silent  hostility.  Their  life  at  night  was  sheer  torment, 


186  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

but  neither  of  them  dared  to  change  their  mode  of  liv- 
ing. Their  bodies  could  not  leave  the  common  bed; 
they  found  in  it  the  places  they  had  occupied  for  years. 
The  habit  of  their  wills  subjected  them  to  this  room  and 
its  furnishings,  with  all  its  memories  of  the  happy  days 
of  their  youth. 

Renovales  would  fall  into  the  deep  sleep  of  a  healthy 
man,  tired  out  with  work.  His  last  thoughts  were  of 
the  countess.  He  saw  her  in  that  vague  mist  that 
shrouds  the  portal  of  unconsciousness ;  he  went  to  sleep, 
thinking  of  what  he  would  say  to  her  the  next  day.  And 
his  dreams  were  in  keeping  with  his  desires,  for  he  saw 
her  standing  on  a  pedestal,  in  all  the  majesty  of  her 
nakedness,  surpassing  the  marble  of  the  most  famous 
statues  with  the  life  of  her  flesh.  When  he  awakened 
suddenly  and  stretched  out  his  arms,  he  touched  the  body 
of  his  companion,  small,  stiff,  burning  with  the  fire  of 
fever  or  icy  with  deathly  cold.  He  divined  that  she  was 
not  asleep.  She  spent  the  nights  without  closing  her 
eyes,  but  she  did  not  move,  as  if  all  her  strength  was 
concentrated  on  something  that  she  watched  in  the  dark- 
ness with  a  hypnotic  stare.  She  was  like  a  corpse.  There 
was  the  obstacle,  the  leaden  weight,  the  phantom  that 
checked  the  other  woman  when  sometimes  in  a  moment 
of  hesitation,  she  leaned  toward  him,  on  the  point  of 
falling.  And  the  terrible  longing,  the  hideous  thought 
came  forth  again  in  all  its  ugliness,  announcing  that  it 
was  not  dead,  that  it  had  only  hidden  in  the  den  of  his 
brain,  to  rise  more  cruelly,  more  insolently. 

"Why  not?"  argued  the  rejected  spirit,  scattering  in 
his  fancy  the  golden  dust  of  dreams. 

Love,  fame,  joy,  a  new  artistic  life,  the  rejuvenation 
of  Doctor  Faustus ;  he  might  expect  everything,  if  kindly 
death  would  but  come  to  help  him,  breaking  the  chain 
that  bound  him  to  sadness  and  sickness. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  187 

But  straightway  a  protest  would  arise  within  him. 
Though  he  lived  like  an  infidel,  he  still  had  a  religious 
soul  that  in  the  trying  moments  of  his  life  led  him  to  call 
on  all  the  superhuman  and  miraculous  powers  as  if  they 
were  under  an  inevitable  obligation  to  come  to  his 
aid.  "Lord,  take  this  horrible  thought  from  me.  Take 
away  this  temptation.  Don't  let  her  die.  Let  her  live, 
even  if  I  perish." 

And  the  following  day,  filled  with  remorse,  he  would 
go  to  some  doctors,  friends  of  his,  to  consult  with  them 
minutely.  He  would  stir  up  the  house,  organizing  the 
cure  according  to  a  vast  plan,  distributing  the  medicines 
by  hours.  Then  he  would  calmly  return  to  his  work, 
to  his  artistic  prejudices,  to  his  passionate  longing,  for- 
getting his  determinations,  thinking  his  wife's  life  was 
already  saved. 

One  afternoon  after  luncheon,  she  came  into  the  studio 
and  as  the  master  looked  at  her,  a  sense  of  anxiety  crept 
over  him.  It  was  a  long  time  since  Josephina  had  en- 
tered the  room  while  he  was  working. 

She  would  not  sit  down ;  standing  beside  the  easel  she 
spoke  slowly  and  meekly  to  her  husband,  without  looking 
at  him.  Renovales  was  frightened  at  this  simplicity. 

"Mariano,  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  about  our  daugh- 
ter." 

She  wanted  her  to  be  married :  it  must  come  some  day 
and  the  sooner,  the  better.  She  would  die  before  long 
and  she  wanted  to  leave  the  world  with  the  assurance  that 
her  daughter  was  well  settled. 

Renovales  felt  forced  to  protest  loudly  with  all  the 
vehemence  of  a  man  who  is  not  very  sure  of  what  he 
is  saying.  Shucks!  Die!  Why  should  she  die?  Her 
health  was  better  now  than  it  had  ever  been.  The  only 
thing  she  needed  was  to  heed  what  the  doctors  told  her. 


189  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"I  shall  die  before  long,"  she  repeated  coldly;  "I  shall 
die  and  you  will  be  left  in  peace.  You  know  it." 

The  painter  tried  to  protest  with  a  greater  show  of 
righteous  indignation  but  his  eyes  met  his  wife's  cold 
look.  Then  he  contented  himself  with  shrugging  his 
shoulders  in  a  resigned  way.  He  did  not  want  to  argue ; 
he  must  keep  calm.  He  had  to  paint ;  he  must  go  out  that 
afternoon  as  usual  on  important  business. 

"Very  well,  go  ahead.  Milita  is  going  to  be  married. 
And  to  whom  ?" 

Led  by  his  desire  to  maintain  his  authority,  to  take  the 
lead,  and  because  of  his  long-standing  affection  for  his 
pupil,  he  hastened  to  speak  of  him.  Was  Soldevilla  the 
suitor?  A  good  boy  with  a  future  ahead  of  him.  He 
worshiped  Milita;  his  dejection  when  she  treated  him 
ill  was  pitiful.  He  would  make  an  excellent  husband. 

Josephina  cut  short  her  husband's  chatter  in  a  cold, 
contemptuous  tone. 

"I  don't  want  any  painters  for  my  daughter ;  you  know 
it.  Her  mother  has  had  enough  of  them." 

Milita  was  going  to  marry  Lopez  de  Sosa.  The  matter 
was  already  settled  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  The 
boy  had  spoken  to  her  and,  assured  of  her  approval, 
would  ask  the  father. 

"But  does  she  love  him  ?  Do  you  think,  Josephina,  that 
these  things  can  be  arranged  to  suit  you?" 

"Yes,  she  loves  him;  she  is  suited  and  wants  to  be 
married.  Besides  she  is  your  daughter;  she  would  ac- 
cept the  other  man  just  as  readily.  What  she  wants  is 
freedom,  to  get  away  from  her  mother,  not  to  live  in 
the  unhappy  atmosphere  of  my  ill  health.  She  doesn't 
say  so,  she  doesn't  even  know  that  she  thinks  it,  but  I 
see  through  her." 

And  as  if,  while  she  spoke  of  her  daughter,  she  could 
not  maintain  the  coldness  she  had  toward  her  husband, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  189 

she  raised  her  hand  to  her  eyes,  to  wipe  away  the  silent 
tears. 

Renovales  had  recourse  to  rudeness  in  order  to  get 
out  of  the  difficulty.  It  was  all  nonsense ;  an  invention  of 
her  diseased  mind.  She  ought  to  think  of  getting  well 
and  nothing  else.  What  was  she  crying  for!  Did  she 
want  to  marry  her  daughter  to  that  automobile  enthusi- 
ast? Well,  get  him.  She  did  not  want  to?  Well,  let 
the  girl  stay  at  home. 

She  was  the  one  who  had  charge ;  no  one  was  hindering 
her.  Have  the  marriage  as  soon  as  possible  ?  He  was  a 
mere  cipher,  and  there  was  no  reason  for  asking  his  ad- 
vice. But  steady,  shucks!  He  had  to  work;  he  had  to 
go  out.  And  when  he  saw  Josephina  leaving  the  studio 
to  weep  somewhere  else,  he  gave  a  snort  of  satisfaction, 
glad  to  have  escaped  from  this  difficult  scene  so  success- 
fully. 

Lopez  de  Sosa  was  all  right.  An  excellent  boy!  Or 
anyone  else.  He  did  not  have  time  to  give  to  such  mat- 
ters. Other  things  occupied  his  attention. 

He  accepted  his  future  son-in-law,  and  for  several 
evenings  he  stayed  at  home  to  lend  a  sort  of  patriarchal 
air  to  the  family  parties.  Milita  and  her  betrothed  talked 
at  one  end  of  the  drawing-room.  Cotoner,  in  the  full 
bliss  of  digestion,  strove  with  his  jests  to  bring  a  faint 
smile  to  the  face  of  the  master's  wife,  but  she  stayed  in 
the  corner,  shivering  with  cold.  Renovales,  in  a  smok- 
ing jacket,  read  the  papers,  soothed  by  the  charming  at- 
mosphere of  his  quiet  home.  If  the  countess  could  only 
see  him ! 

One  night  the  Alberca  woman's  name  was  mentioned 
in  the  drawing-room.  Milita  was  running  over  from 
memory  the  list  of  friends  of  the  family, — prominent 
ladies  who  would  not  fail  to  honor  her  approaching 
marriage  with  some  magnificent  present. 


190  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Concha  won't  come,"  said  the  girl.  "It's  a  long  time 
since  she  has  been  here." 

There  was  a  painful  silence,  as  if  the  countess's  name 
chilled  the  atmosphere.  Cotoner  hummed  a  tune,  pre- 
tending to  be  thinking  of  something  else ;  Lopez  de  Sosa 
began  to  look  for  a  piece  of  music  on  the  piano,  talking 
about  it  to  change  the  subject.  He  too  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  the  matter. 

"She  doesn't  come  because  she  doesn't  have  to  come," 
said  Josephina  from  her  corner.  "Your  father  man- 
ages to  see  her  every  day,  so  that  she  won't  forget  us." 

Renovales  raised  his  eyes  in  protest,  as  if  he  were 
awakening  from  a  calm  sleep.  Josephina's  gaze  was 
fixed  on  him,  not  angry,  but  mocking  and  cruel.  It  re- 
flected the  same  scorn  with  which  she  had  wounded  him 
on  that  unhappy  night.  She  no  longer  said  anything, 
but  the  master  read  in  those  eyes: 

"It  is  useless,  my  good  man.  You  are  mad  over  her, 
you  pursue  her,  but  she  belongs  to  other  men.  I  know 
her  of  old.  I  know  all  about  it.  Oh,  how  people  laugh 
at  you!  How  I  laugh!  How  I  scorn  you!" 


IV 


THE  beginning  of  summer  saw  the  wedding  of  the 
daughter  of  Renovales  to  Lopez  de  Sosa.  The  papers 
published  whole  columns  on  the  event,  in  which,  accord- 
ing to  some  of  the  reporters,  "the  glory  and  splendor  of 
art  were  united  with  the  prestige  of  aristocracy  and 
fortune."  No  one  remembered  now  the  nickname 
"Pickled  Herring." 

The  master  Renovales  did  things  well.  He  had  only 
one  daughter  and  he  was  eager  to  marry  her  with  royal 
pomp ;  eager  that  Madrid  and  all  Spain  should  know  of 
the  affair,  that  a  ray  of  the  glory  her  father  had  won 
might  fall  on  Milita. 

The  list  of  gifts  was  long.  All  the  friends  of  the 
master,  society  ladies,  political  leaders,  famous  artists, 
and  even  royal  personages,  appeared  in  it  with  their 
corresponding  presents.  There  was  enough  to  fill  a 
store.  Both  of  the  studios  for  visitors  were  converted 
into  .show  rooms  with  countless  tables  loaded  with  ar- 
ticles, a  regular  fair  of  clothes  and  jewelry,  that  was 
visited  by  all  of  Milita's  girl  friends,  even  the  most  dis- 
tant and  forgotten,  who  came  to  congratulate  her,  pale 
with  envy. 

The  Countess  of  Alberca,  too,  sent  a  huge,  showy  gift, 
as  if  she  did  not  want  to  remain  unnoticed  among  the 
friends  of  the  house.  Doctor  Monteverde  was  repre- 
sented by  a  modest  remembrance,  though  he  had  no  other 
connection  with  the  family  than  his  friendship  with  the 
master. 

The  wedding  was  celebrated  at  the  house,  where  one 

191 


192  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

of  the  studios  was  converted  into  a  chapel.  Cotoner  had 
a  hand  in  everything  that  concerned  the  ceremony,  de- 
lighted to  be  able  to  show  his  influence  with  the  people 
of  the  Church. 

Renovales  took  charge  of  the  arrangements  of  the  al- 
tar, eager  to  display  the  touch  of  an  artist  even  in  the 
least  details.  On  a  background  of  ancient  tapestries  he 
placed  an  old  triptych,  a  medieval  cross ;  all  the  articles 
of  worship  which  filled  his  studio  as  decorations, 
cleaned  now  from  dust  and  cobwebs,  recovered  for  a 
few  moments  their  religious  importance. 

A  variegated  flood  of  flowers  filled  the  master's  house. 
Renovales  insisted  on  having  them  everywhere;  he  had 
sent  to  Valencia  and  Murcia  for  them  in  reckless  quan- 
tities; they  hung  on  the  door-frames,  and  along  the 
cornices;  they  lay  in  huge  clusters  on  the  tables  and  in 
the  corners.  They  even  swung  in  pagan  garlands  from 
one  column  of  the  fagade  to  another,  arousing  the  cu- 
riosity of  the  passers-by,  who  crowded  outside  of  the 
iron  fence, — women  in  shawls,  boys  with  great  baskets 
on  their  heads  who  stood  in  open-mouthed  wonder  be- 
fore the  strange  sight,  waiting  to  see  what  was  going  on 
in  that  unusual  house,  following  the  coming  and  going 
of  the  servants  who  carried  in  music  stands  and  two 
base  viols,  hidden  in  varnished  cases. 

Early  in  the  morning  Renovales  was  hurrying  about 
with  two  ribbons  across  his  shirt  front  and  a  constella- 
tion of  golden,  flashing  stars  covering  one  whole  side  of 
his  coat.  Cotoner,  too,  had  put  on  the  insignia  of  his 
various  Papal  Orders.  The  master  looked  at  himself  in 
all  the  mirrors  with  considerable  satisfaction,  admiring 
equally  his  friend.  They  must  look  handsome;  a  cel- 
ebration like  this  they  would  never  see  again.  He  plied 
his  companion  with  incessant  questions,  to  make  sure 
that  nothing  had  been  overlooked  in  the  preparations. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  195 

The  master  Pedraza,  a  great  friend  of  Renovales,  was 
to  conduct  the  orchestra.  They  had  gathered  all  the  best 
players  in  Madrid,  for  the  most  part  from  the  Opera. 
The  choir  was  a  good  one,  but  the  only  notable  artists 
they  had  been  able  to  secure  were  people  who  made  the 
capital  their  residence.  The  season  was  not  the  best; 
the  theaters  were  closed. 

Cotoner  continued  to  explain  the  measures  he  had 
taken.  Promptly  at  ten  the  Nuncio,  Monsignore  Orlandi, 
• — a  great  friend  of  his — would  arrive ;  a  handsome  chap, 
still  young,  whom  he  had  met  in  Rome  when  he  was  at- 
tached to  the  Vatican.  A  word  on  Cotoner's  part  was 
all  that  was  necessary  to  persuade  him  to  do  them  the 
honor  of  marrying  the  children.  Friends  are  useful  at 
times !  And  the  painter  of  the  popes,  proud  of  his  sud- 
den rise  to  importance,  went  from  room  to  room,  ar- 
ranging everything,  followed  by  the  master  who  approved 
of  his  orders. 

In  the  studio,  the  orchestra  and  the  table  for  the 
luncheon  were  set.  The  other  rooms  were  for  the  guests. 
;Was  anything  forgotten?  The  two  artists  looked  at  the 
altar  with  its  dark  tapestries,  and  its  candelabra,  crosses 
and  reliquaries,  of  dull,  old  gold  that  seemed  to  absorb 
the  light  rather  than  reflect  it.  Nothing  was  lacking. 
Ancient  fabrics  and  garlands  of  flowers  covered  the 
walls,  hiding  the  master's  studies  in  color,  unfinished 
pictures,  profane  works  that  could  not  be  tolerated  in 
the  discreet,  harmonious  atmosphere  of  that  chapel-like 
room.  The  floor  was  partly  covered  with  costly  rugs, 
Persian  and  Moorish.  In  front  of  the  altar  were  two 
praying  desks  and  behind  them,  for  the  more  important 
guests,  all  the  luxurious  chairs  of  the  studio :  white  arm- 
chairs of  the  1 8th  Century,  embroidered  with  pastoral 
scenes,  Greek  settles,  benches  of  carved  oak  and  Vene- 


194  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

tian  chairs  with  high  backs,  the  bizarre  confusion  of  an 
antique  shop. 

Suddenly  Cotoner  started  back  as  if  he  were  shocked. 
How  careless !  A  fine  thing  it  would  have  been  if  he  had 
not  noticed  it !  At  the  end  of  the  studio,  opposite  the  altar 
that  screened  a  large  part  of  the  window,  and  directly 
in  its  light,  stood  a  huge,  white,  naked  woman.  It  was 
the  "Venus  de  Medici,"  a  superb  piece  of  marble  that 
Renovales  had  brought  from  Italy.  Its  pagan  beauty  in 
its  dazzling  whiteness  seemed  to  challenge  the  deathly 
yellow  of  the  religious  objects  that  filled  the  other  end 
of  the  studio.  Accustomed  to  see  it,  the  two  artists 
had  passed  in  front  of  it  several  times  without  noticing 
its  nakedness  that  seemed  more  insolent  and  triumphant 
now  that  the  studio  was  converted  into  an  oratory. 

Cotoner  began  to  laugh. 

"What  a  scandal  if  we  hadn't  seen  it!  What  would 
the  ladies  have  said!  My  friend  Orlandi  would  have 
thought  that  you  did  it  on  purpose,  for  he  considers  you 
rather  lax  morally.  Come,  my  boy,  let's  get  something 
to  cover  up  this  lady." 

After  much  searching  in  the  disorder  of  the  studio, 
they  found  a  piece  of  Indian  cotton,  scrawled  with  ele- 
phants and  lotus  flowers ;  they  stretched  it  over  the  god- 
dess's head,  so  that  it  covered  her  down  to  her  feet  and 
there  it  stood,  like  a  mystery,  a  riddle  for  the  guests. 

They  were  beginning  tq  arrive.  Outside  of  the  house, 
at  the  fence  sounded  the  stamping  of  the  horses,  the  slam 
of  doors  as  they  closed.  In  the  distance  rumbled  other 
carriages,  drawing  nearer  every  minute.  The  swish  of 
silk  on  the  floor  sounded  in  the  hall,  and  the  servants  ran 
back  and  forth,  receiving  wraps  and  putting  numbers  on 
them,  as  at  the  theater,  to  stow  them  away  in  the  parlor 
that  had  been  converted  into  a  coat-room.  Cotoner  di- 
rected the  servants,  smooth  shaven  or  wearing  side- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  195 

whiskers,  and  clad  in  faded  dress-suits.  Renovales 
meanwhile  was  wreathed  in  smiles,  bowing  graciously, 
greeting  the  ladies  who  came  in  their  black  or  white  man- 
tillas, grasping  the  hands  of  the  men,  some  of  whom  wore 
brilliant  uniforms. 

The  master  felt  elated  at  this  procession  which  cere- 
moniously passed  through  his  drawing-rooms  and 
studios.  In  his  ears,  the  swish  of  skirts,  the  movement 
of  fans,  the  greetings,  the  praise  of  his  good  taste  sounded 
like  caressing  music.  Everyone  came  with  the  same 
satisfaction  in  seeing  and  being  seen,  which  people  reveal 
on  a  first  night  at  the  theater  or  at  some  brilliant  recep- 
tion. Good  music,  presence  of  the  Nuncio,  preparations 
for  the  luncheon  which  they  seemed  to  sniff  already,  and 
besides,  the  certainty  of  seeing  their  names  in  print  the 
next  day,  perhaps  of  having  their  picture  in  some  il- 
lustrated magazine.  Emilia  Renovales'  wedding  was  an 
event. 

Among  the  crowd  of  people  that  continued  to  pour  in 
were  seen  several  young  men,  hastily  holding  up  their 
cameras.  They  were  going  to  have  snap-shots!  Those 
who  retained  some  bitterness  against  the  artist,  remem- 
bering how  dearly  they  had  paid  him  for  a  portrait,  now 
pardoned  him  generously  and  excused  his  robbery. 
There  was  an  artist  that  lived  like  a  gentleman!  And 
Renovales  went  from  one  side  to  another,  shaking  hands, 
bowing,  talking  incoherently,  not  knowing  in  which  di- 
rection to  turn.  For  a  moment,  while  he  stood  in  the 
hall,  he  saw  a  bit  of  sunlit  garden,  covered  with  flowers 
and  beyond  a  fence  a  black  mass :  the  admiring,  smiling 
throng.  He  breathed  the  odor  of  roses  and  subtle  per- 
fumes, and  felt  the  rapture  of  optimism  flood  his  breast. 
Life  was  a  great  thing.  The  poor  rabble,  crowded  to- 
gether outside,  made  him  recall  with  pride  the  black- 
smith's son.  Heavens,  how  he  had  risen!  He  felt 


196  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

grateful  to  those  wealthy,  idle  people  who  supported  his 
well-being ;  he  made  every  effort  so  that  they  might  lack 
nothing,  and  overwhelmed  Cotoner  with  his  suggestions. 
The  latter  turned  on  the  master  with  the  arrogance  of 
one  who  is  in  authority.  His  place  was  inside,  with  the 
guests.  He  need  not  mind  him,  for  he  knew  his  duties. 
And  turning  his  back  on  Mariano,  he  issued  orders  to 
the  servants  and  showed  the  way  to  the  new  arrivals, 
recognizing  their  station  at  a  glance.  "This  way,  gen- 
tlemen." 

It  was  a  group  of  musicians  and  he  led  them  through 
a  servants'  hallway  so  that  they  might  get  to  their  stands 
without  having  to  mingle  with  the  guests.  Then  he 
turned  to  scold  a  crowd  of  bakerboys,  who  were  late  in 
bringing  the  last  shipments  of  the  luncheon  and  advanced 
through  the  assemblage,  raising  the  great,  wicker  bas- 
kets over  the  heads  of  the  ladies. 

Cotoner  left  his  place  when  he  saw  rising  from  the 
stairway  a  plush  hat  with  gold  tassels  over  a  pale  face, 
then  a  silk  cassock  with  purple  sash  and  buttons,  flanked 
by  two  others,  black  and  modest. 

"Oh,  consignor  el  Monsignore  Orlandi!  Va  benef 
Va  bene?" 

He  kissed  his  hand  with  a  profound  reverence,  and  af- 
ter inquiring  anxiously  for  his  health,  as  if  he  had  not 
seen  him  the  day  before,  started  off,  opening  a  passage 
way  in  the  crowded  drawing-rooms. 

"The  Nuncio !    The  Nuncio  of  His  Holiness !" 

The  men,  with  the  decorum  of  decent  persons,  who 
know  how  to  show  respect  for  dignitaries,  stopped  laugh- 
ing and  talking  to  the  ladies,  and  bent  forward,  as  he 
passed,  to  take  that  delicate,  pale  hand,  which  looked  like 
the  hand  of  a  lady  of  the  olden  days,  and  kiss  the  huge 
stone  of  its  ring.  The  ladies,  with  moist  eyes,  looked  for 
a  moment  at  Monsignor  Orlandi, — a  distinguished  prel- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  197 

ate,  a  diplomat  of  the  Church,  a  noble  of  the  Old  Roman 
nobility, — tall,  thin,  pale  as  chalk,  with  black  hair  and 
imperious  eyes  in  which  there  was  an  intense  flash  of 
flame. 

He  moved  with  the  haughty  grace  of  a  bull-fighter. 
The  lips  of  the  women  rested  eagerly  on  his  hand,  while 
he  gazed  with  enigmatical  eyes  at  the  line  of  graceful 
necks  bowed  before  him.  Cotoner  continued  ahead, 
opening  a  passage,  proud  of  his  part,  elated  at  the  re- 
spect which  his  illustrious  friend  inspired.  What  a  won- 
derful thing  religion  was ! 

He  accompanied  him  to  the  sacristy,  which  once  was 
the  dressing-room  for  the  models.  He  remained  outside, 
discreetly,  but  every  other  minute  some  one  of  the  Nun- 
cio's attendants  came  out  in  search  of  him, — sprightly 
young  fellows  with  a  feminine  carriage  and  a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  'perfume  about  them,  who  looked  on  the  art- 
ist with  respect,  believing  he  was  an  important  person- 
age. They  called  to  Signor  Cotoner,  asking  him  to  help 
them  find  something  Monsignor  had  sent  the  day  before, 
and  the  Bohemian,  in  order  to  avoid  further  requests, 
finally  went  into  the  dressing-room,  to  assist  in  the  sacred 
toilette  of  his  illustrious  friend. 

In  the  drawing-rooms  the  company  suddenly  eddied, 
the  conversation  ceased,  and  a  throng  of  people,  after 
crowding  in  front  of  one  of  the  doors,  opened  to  leave 
a  passage. 

The  bride,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  distinguished  gen- 
tleman, who  was  the  best  man,  entered,  clad  in  white, 
ivory  white  her  dress,  snow  white  her  veil,  pearl  white 
her  flowers.  The  only  bright  color  she  showed  was  the 
healthy  pink  of  her  cheeks  and  the  red  of  her  lips.  She 
smiled  to  her  friends,  not  bashfully  nor  timidly,  but  with 
an  air  of  satisfaction  at  the  festivity  and  the  fact  that 
she  was  its  principal  object.  After  her  came  the  groom, 


198  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

giving  his  arm  to  his  new  mother,  the  painter's  wife, 
smaller  than  ever  in  her  party-gown  that  was  too  large 
for  her,  dazed  by  this  noisy  event  that  broke  the  painful 
calm  of  her  existence. 

And  the  father  ?  Renovales  was  missing  in  the  formal 
entrance;  he  was  very  busy  attending  to  the  guests;  a 
gracious  smile,  half  hidden  behind  a  fan,  detained  him 
at  one  end  of  the  drawing-room.  He  had  felt  some  one 
touch  his  shoulder  and,  turning  around,  he  saw  the  sol- 
emn Count  of  Alberca  with  his  wife  on  his  arm.  The 
count  had  congratulated  him  on  the  appearance  of  the 
studios;  all  very  artistic.  The  countess  had  congratu- 
lated him  too,  in  a  jesting  tone,  on  the  importance  of  this 
event  in  his  life.  The  moment  of  retiring,  of  saying 
good-by  to  youth  had  come. 

"They  are  shelving  you,  dear  master.  Pretty  soon  they 
will  be  calling  you  grandfather." 

She  laughed  with  pleasure  at  the  flush  of  pain  these 
pitying  words  caused  him.  But  before  Mariano  could 
answer  the  countess,  he  felt  himself  dragged  away  by 
Cotoner.  What  was  he  doing  there?  The  bride  and 
groom  were  at  the  altar ;  Monsignor  was  beginning  the 
service;  the  father's  chair  was  still  vacant.  And  Reno- 
vales  passed  a  tiresome  half-hour  following  the  cere- 
monies of  the  prelate  with  an  absent-minded  glance.  Far 
away  in  the  last  of  th :  studios,  the  stringed  instruments 
struck  a  loud  chord  rnd  a  melody  of  earthly  mysticism 
poured  forth  from  room  to  room  in  the  atmosphere  laden 
with  the  perfume  of  crumpled  roses. 

Then  a  sweet  voice,  supported  by  others  more  harsh, 
began  a  prayer  that  had  the  voluptuous  rhythm  of  an  Ital- 
ian serenade.  A  passing  wave  of  sentimentality  seemed 
to  stir  the  guests.  Cotoner,  who  stood  near  the  altar,  in 
case  Monsignor  should  need  something,  felt  moved  to 
tenderness  by  the  music,  by  the  sight  of  that  distin- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  199 

guished  gathering,  by  the  dramatic  gravity  with  which 
the  Roman  prelate  conducted  the  ceremonies  of  his  pro- 
fession. Seeing  Milita  so  fair,  kneeling,  with  her  eyes 
lowered  under  her  snowy  veil,  the  poor  Bohemian  blinked 
to  keep  back  the  tears.  He  felt  just  as  if  he  were  mar- 
rying his  own  daughter.  He  who  had  not  had  one! 

Renovales  sat  up,  seeking  the  countess's  eyes  above  the 
white  and  black  mantillas.  Sometimes  he  found  them 
resting  on  him  with  a  mocking  expression,  at  other  times 
he  saw  them  seeking  Monteverde  in  the  crowd  of  gen- 
tlemen that  filled  the  doorway. 

There  was  one  moment  when  the  painter  paid  atten- 
tion to  the  ceremony.  How  long  it  was  !  The  music  had 
ceased;  Monsignor,  with  his  back  to  the  altar,  advanced 
several  steps  toward  the  newly  married  couple,  holding 
out  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak  to  them. 
There  was  a  profound  hush  and  the  voice  of  the  Italian 
began  to  sound  in  the  silence  with  a  sing-song  mellow- 
ness, hesitating  over  some  words,  supplying  them  with 
others  of  his  own  language.  He  explained  to  the  man 
and  wife  their  duties  and  expatiated,  with  oratorical  fire, 
in  his  praises  of  their  families.  He  spoke  little  of  him ; 
he  was  a  representative  of  the  upper  classes,  from  which 
rise  the  leaders  of  men ;  he  knew  his  duties.  She  was  the 
descendant  of  a  great  painter  whose  fame  was  universal, 
of  an  artist. 

As  he  mentioned  art,  the  Roman  prelate  was  fired  with 
enthusiasm,  as  if  he  were  speaking  of  his  own  stock,  with 
the  deep  interest  of  a  man  whose  life  had  been  spent 
among  the  splendid  half -pagan  decorations  of  the  Vati- 
can. "Next  to  God,  there  is  nothing  like  art."  And  af- 
ter this  statement,  with  which  he  attributed  to  the  bride  a 
nobility  superior  to  that  of  many  of  the  people  who  were 
watching  her,  he  eulogized  the  virtues  of  her  parents.  In 
admirable  terms,  he  commended  their  pure  love  and 


200  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Christian  fidelity,  ties  with  which  they  approached  to- 
gether, Renovales  and  his  wife,  the  portal  of  old  age  and 
which  surely  would  accompany  them  till  death.  The 
painter  bowed  his  head,  afraid  that  he  would  meet  Con- 
cha's mocking  glance.  He  could  hear  Josephina's  stifled 
sobs,  with  her  face  hidden  in  the  lace  of  her  mantilla. 
Cotoner  felt  called  upon  to  second  the  prelate's  praises 
with  discreet  words  of  approval. 

Then  the  orchestra  noisily  began  Mendelssohn's  "Wed- 
ding March" ;  the  chairs  ground  on  the  floor  as  they  were 
pushed  back;  the  ladies  rushed  toward  the  bride  and  a 
buzz  of  congratulations,  shouted  over  the  heads  of  the 
company,  and  of  noisy  efforts  to  be  the  first  to  reach  her, 
drowned  out  the  vibration  of  the  strings  and  the  heavy 
blast  of  the  brasses.  Monsignor,  whose  importance  dis- 
appeared as  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over,  made  his 
way  with  his  attendants  to  the  dressing-room,  passing  un- 
noticed through  the  throng.  The  bride  smiled  with  a 
resigned  air  amid  the  circle  of  feminine  arms  that 
squeezed  her  and  friendly  lips  that  showered  kisses  on 
her.  She  expressed  surprise  at  the  simplicity  of  the  cer- 
emony. Was  that  all  there  was  to  it?  Was  she  really 
married  ? 

Cotoner  saw  Josephina  making  her  way  across  the 
room,  looking  impatiently  among  the  shoulders  of  the 
guests,  her  face  tinged  with  a  hectic  flush.  His  instinct 
of  a  master  of  ceremonies  warned  him  that  danger  was 
at  hand. 

"Take  my  arm,  Josephina.  Let's  go  outside  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  This  is  unbearable." 

She  took  his  arm  but  instead  of  following  him,  she 
dragged  him  among  the  people  who  crowded  around  her 
daughter  until  at  last,  seeing  the  Countess  of  Alberca, 
she  stopped.  Her  prudent  friend  trembled.  Just  what 
he  thought — she  was  looking  for  the  other  woman. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  201 

"Josephina,  Josephina!  Remember  that  this  is  Mil- 
ita's  wedding!" 

But  his  advice  was  useless.  Concha,  seeing  her  old 
friend,  ran  toward  her.  "Dear !  So  long  since  I've  seen 
you !  A  kiss — another."  And  she  kissed  her  effusively. 
The  little  woman  made  one  attempt  to  resist ;  but  then 
she  submitted,  dejectedly,  smiling  sadly,  overcome  by 
habit  and  training.  She  returned  her  kisses  coldly  with 
an  indifferent  expression.  She  did  not  hate  Concha.  If 
her  husband  did  not  go  to  her,  he  would  go  to  some  one 
else;  the  real,  the  dangerous  enemy  was  within  him. 

The  bride  and  groom,  arm  in  arm,  smiling  and 
somewhat  fatigued  by  the  violent  congratulations, 
passed  through  the  groups  of  people  and  disappeared, 
followed  by  the  last  chords  of  the  triumphal  march. 

The  music  ceased,  and  the  company  crowded  around 
the  tables  covered  with  bottles,  cold  meats  and  confec- 
tions, behind  which  the  servants  hurried  in  confusion, 
not  knowing  how  to  serve  so  many  a  black  glove  or  white 
hand  that  seized  the  gold-bordered  plates  and  the  little 
pearl  knives  crossed  on  the  dishes.  It  was  a  smiling,  well- 
bred  riot,  but  they  pushed  and  trod  on  the  ladies'  trains 
and  used  their  elbows,  as  if,  now  the  ceremony  was  over, 
they  were  all  gnawed  with  hunger. 

Plate  in  hand,  stifled  and  breathless  after  the  assault, 
they  scattered  through  the  studios,  eating  even  on  the 
very  altar.  There  were  not  servants  enough  for  so  great 
a  gathering;  the  young  men,  seizing  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne, ran  in  all  directions,  filling  the  ladies'  glasses. 
Amid  great  merriment  the  tables  were  pillaged.  The  ser- 
vants covered  them  hastily  and  with  no  less  speed  the 
pyramids  of  sandwiches,  fruits,  and  sweets  came  down 
and  the  bottles  disappeared.  The  corks  popped  two  and 
three  at  a  time,  in  ceaseless  crossfire. 

Renovales  ran  about  like  a  servant,  loaded  with  plates 


202  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

and  glasses,  going  back  and  forth  from  the  crowded  ta 
bles  to  the  corners  where  some  of  his  friends  were  seated. 
The  Alberca  woman  assumed  the  airs  of  a  mistress;  she 
made  him  go  and  come  with  constant  requests. 

On  one  of  these  trips  he  ran  into  his  beloved  pupil, 
Soldevilla.  He  had  not  seen  him  for  a  long  time.  He 
looked  rather  gloomy,  but  he  found  some  consolation  in 
looking  at  his  waistcoat,  a  novelty  that  had  made  a  "hit" 
among  the  younger  set;  of  black  velvet  with  embroid- 
ered flowers  and  gold  buttons. 

The  master  felt  that  he  ought  to  console  him, — poor 
boy!  For  the  first  time  he  gave  him  to  understand  that 
he  was  "in  the  secret." 

''I  wanted  something  else  for  my  daughter,  but  it  was 
impossible.  Work,  Soldevilla !  Courage !  We  must  not 
have  any  mistress  except  painting." 

And  content  to  have  delivered  this  kindly  consolation, 
he  returned  to  the  countess. 

At  noon,  the  reception  ended.  Lopez  de  Sosa  and  his 
wife  reappeared  in  traveling  costume ;  he  in  a  fox-skin 
overcoat,  in  spite  of  the  heat,  a  leather  cap  and  high  leg- 
gings ;  she  in  a  long  mackintosh  that  reached  to  her  feet 
and  a  turban  of  thick  veils  that  hid  her  face,  like  a  fu- 
gitive from  a  harem. 

At  the  door,  the  groom's  latest  acquisition  was  waiting 
for  them — an  eighty  horse-power  car  that  he  had  bought 
for  his  wedding  trip.  They  intended  to  spend  the  night 
some  hundred  miles  away  in  a  corner  of  old  Castile,  at 
an  estate  inherited  from  his  father  which  he  had  never 
visited. 

A  modern  wedding,  as  Cotoner  said,  a  honeymoon  at 
full  speed,  without  any  witness  except  the  discreet  back 
of  the  chauffeur.  The  next  day  they  expected  to  start 
for  a  tour  of  Europe.  They  would  go  as  far  as  Berlin ; 
perhaps  farther. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  203 

Lopez  de  Sosa  shook  hands  with  his  friends  vigor- 
ously, like  a  proud  explorer,  and  went  out  to  look  over  his 
car,  before  leaving.  Milita  submitted  to  her  friends'  ca- 
resses, carrying  away  her  mother's  tears  on  her  veil. 

"Good-by,  good-by,  my  daughter !" 

And  the  wedding  was  over. 

Renovales  and  his  wife  were  left  alone.  The  absence 
of  their  daughter  seemed  to  increase  the  solitude,  widen- 
ing the  distance  between  them.  They  looked  at  each 
other  hostilely,  reserved  and  gloomy,  without  a  sound 
to  break  the  silence  and  serve  as  a  bridge  to  enable  them 
to  exchange  a  few  words.  Their  life  was  going  to  be 
like  that  of  convicts,  who  hate  each  other  and  walk  side 
by  side,  bound  with  the  same  chain,  in  tormenting  union, 
forced  to  share  the  same  necessities  of  life. 

As  a  remedy  for  this  isolation  that  filled  them  with 
misgivings  they  both  thought  of  having  the  newly  mar- 
ried couple  come  to  live  with  them.  The  house  was 
large,  there  was  room  for  them  all.  But  Milita  objected, 
gently  but  firmly,  and  her  husband  seconded  her.  He 
must  live  near  his  coach  house,  his  garage.  Besides, 
where  could  he,  without  shocking  his  father-in-law,  put 
his  collection  of  treasures,  his  museum  of  bull's  heads  and 
bloody  suits  of  famous  toreadors,  which  was  the  envy  of 
his  friends  and  an  object  of  great  curiosity  for  many  for- 
eigners. 

When  the  painter  and  his  wife  were  alone  again,  it 
seemed  as  though  they  had  aged  many  years  in  a  month ; 
they  found  their  house  more  huge,  more  deserted, — with 
the  echoing  silence  of  abandoned  monuments.  Renovales 
wanted  Cotoner  to  move  to  the  house,  but  the  Bohemian 
declined  with  a  sort  of  fear.  He  would  eat  with  them; 
he  would  spend  a  great  part  of  the  day  at  their  house; 
they  were  all  the  family  he  had ;  but  he  wanted  to  keep  his 
freedom ;  he  could  not  give  up  his  numerous  friends. 


204  ,          WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Well  along  in  the  summer,  the  master  induced  his  wife 
to  take  her  usual  vacation.  They  would  go  to  a  little 
known  Andalusian  watering-place,  a  fishing  village  where 
the  artist  had  painted  many  of  his  pictures.  He  was  tired 
of  Madrid.  The  Countess  of  Alberca  was  at  Biarritz 
with  her  husband.  Doctor  Monteverde  had  gone  there 
too,  dragged  along  by  her. 

They  made  the  trip,  but  it  did  not  last  more  than  a 
month.  The  master  hardly  finished  two  canvases.  Jo- 
sephina  felt  ill.  When  they  reached  the  watering-place, 
her  health  improved  greatly.  She  appeared  more  cheer- 
ful; for  hours  at  a  time  she  would  sit  in  the  sand,  get- 
ting tanned  in  the  sun,  craving  the  warmth  with  the  eag- 
erness of  an  invalid,  watching  the  sea  with  her  expres- 
sionless eyes,  near  her  husband  who  painted,  surrounded 
by  a  semicircle  of  wretched  people.  She  sang,  smiled 
sometimes  to  the  master,  as  if  she  forgave  him  every- 
thing and  wanted  to  forget,  but  suddenly  a  shadow  of 
sadness  had  fallen  on  her;  her  body  seemed  paralyzed 
once  more  by  weakness.  She  conceived  an  aversion  to 
the  bright  beach,  and  the  life  of  the  open  air,  with  that 
repugnance  for  light  and  noise  which  sometimes  seizes 
invalids  and  makes  them  hide  in  the  seclusion  of  their 
beds.  She  sighed  for  her  gloomy  house  in  Madrid. 
There  she  was  better,  she  felt  stronger,  surrounded  with 
memories;  she  thought  she  was  safer  from  the  black 
danger  that  hovered  about  her.  Besides,  she  longed  to 
see  her  daughter.  Renovales  must  telegraph  to  his  son- 
in-law.  They  had  toured  Europe  long  enough;  it  was 
time  for  them  to  come  back;  she  must  see  Milita. 

They  returned  to  Madrid  at  the  end  of  September,  and 
a  little  later  the  newly  married  couple  joined  them,  de- 
lighted with  their  trip  and  still  more  delighted  to  be  at 
home  again.  Lopez  de  Sosa  had  been  greatly  vexed  by 
meeting  people  wealthier  than  he,  who  humiliated  him 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  205 

with  their  luxury.  His  wife  wanted  to  live  among 
friends  who  would  admire  her  prosperity.  She  was 
grieved  at  the  lack  of  curiosity  in  those  countries  where 
no  one  paid  any  attention  to  her. 

With  the  presence  of  her  daughter,  Josephina  seemed 
to  recover  her  spirits.  The  latter  frequently  came  in  the 
afternoon,  dressed  in  her  showy  gowns,  which  were  the 
more  striking  at  that  season  when  most  of  the  society 
folk  were  away  from  Madrid,  and  took  her  mother  to 
ride  in  the  motor  in  the  suburbs  of  the  capital,  sweeping 
along  the  dusty  roads.  Sometimes,  too,  Josephina  sum- 
moning her  courage,  overcame  her  bodily  weakness  and 
went  to  her  daughter's  house,  a  second-story  apartment 
in  the  Calle  de  Olozaga,  admiring  the  modern  comforts 
that  surrounded  her. 

The  master  seemed  to  be  bored.  He  had  no  portraits 
to  paint ;  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  do  anything  in  Ma- 
drid while  he  was  still  saturated  with  the  radiant  sun  and 
the  brilliant  colors  of  the  Mediterranean  shore.  Besides, 
he  missed  the  company  of  Cotoner,  who  had  gone  to  a 
historic  little  town  in  Castile,  where  with  a  comic  pride 
he  received  the  honors  due  to  genius,  living  in  the  palace 
of  the  prelate  and  ruining  several  pictures  in  the  Cathe- 
dral by  an  infamous  restoration. 

His  loneliness  made  Renovales  remember  the  Alberca 
woman  with  all  the  greater  longing.  She,  on  her  part, 
with  a  constant  succession  of  letters  reminded  the  painter 
of  her  every  day.  She  had  written  to  him  while  he  was 
at  the  little  village  on  the  coast  and  now  she  wrote  to  him 
in  Madrid,  asking  him  what  he  was  doing,  taking  an  in- 
terest in  the  most  insignificant  details  of  his  daily  life 
and  telling  him  about  her  own  with  an  exuberance  that 
filled  pages  and  pages,  till  every  envelope  contained  a  ver- 
itable history. 

The  painter  followed  her  life  minute  by  minute,  as 


206  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

if  he  were  with  her.  She  talked  to  him  about  Darwin, 
concealing  Monteverde  under  this  name;  she  complained 
of  his  coldness,  of  his  indifference,  of  the  air  of  com- 
miseration with  which  he  submitted  to  her  love.  "Oh, 
master,  I  am  very  unhappy!"  At  other  times  her  letter 
was  triumphant,  optimistic;  she  seemed  radiant,  and  the 
painter  read  her  satisfaction  between  the  lines:  he  di- 
vined her  intoxication  after  those  daring  meetings  in 
her  own  house,  defying  the  count's  blindness.  And  she 
told  him  everything,  with  shameless,  maddening  fa- 
miliarity, as  if  he  were  a  woman,  as  if  he  could  not  be 
moved  in  the  least  by  her  confidences. 

In  her  last  letter,  Concha  seemed  mad  with  joy.  The 
count  was  at  San  Sebastian,  to  take  leave  of  the  king  and 
queen, — an  important  diplomatic  mission.  Although  he 
was  not  "in  line,"  they  had  chosen  him  as  a  representa- 
tive of  the  most  distinguished  Spanish  nobility  to  take 
the  Fleece  to  a  petty  prince  of  a  little  German  state.  The 
poor  gentleman,  since  he  could  not  win  the  golden  dis- 
tinction, had  to  be  contented  with  taking  it  to  other  men 
with  great  pomp.  Renovales  saw  the  countess's  hand  in 
all  this.  Her  letters  were  radiant  with  joy.  She  was 
going  to  be  left  alone  with  Darwin,  for  the  noble  gentle- 
man would  be  absent  for  a  long  time.  Married  life  with 
the  doctor,  free  from  risk  and  disturbance ! 

Renovales  read  these  letters  merely  out  of  curiosity; 
they  no  longer  awakened  in  Tiirn  an  intense  or  lasting 
interest.  He  had  grown  accustomed  to  his  situation  as 
a  confidant;  his  desire  was  cooled  by  the  frankness  of 
that  woman  who  put  herself  in  his  power,  telling  him  all 
her  secrets.  Her  body  was  the  only  thing  he  did  not 
know;  her  inner  life  he  possessed  as  did  none  of  her 
lovers  and  he  began  to  feel  tired  of  this  possession. 
When  he  finished  reading  these  letters,  he  would  always 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  *07 

think  the  same  thing.  "She  is  mad.  What  do  I  care 
about  her  secrets?" 

A  week  passed  without  any  news  from  Biarritz.  The 
papers  spoke  of  the  trip  of  the  eminent  Count  of  Al- 
berca.  He  was  already  in  Germany  with  all  his  retinue, 
getting  ready  to  put  the  noble  lambskin  around  the 
princely  shoulders.  Renovales  smiled  knowingly,  with- 
out emotion,  without  envy,  as  he  thought  of  the  countess's 
silence.  She  had  a  great  deal  to  take  up  her  time,  no 
doubt,  since  she  was  left  alone. 

Suddenly  one  afternoon  he  heard  from  her  in  the  most 
unexpected  manner.  He  was  going  out  of  his  house, 
just  at  sunset,  to  take  a  walk  on  the  heights  of  the 
Hippodrome  along  the  Canalillo  to  view  Madrid  from 
the  hill,  when  at  the  gate  a  messenger  boy  in  a  red  coat 
handed  him  a  letter.  The  painter  started  with  surprise 
on  recognizing  Concha's  handwriting.  Four  hasty,  ex- 
cited lines.  She  had  just  arrived  that  afternoon  on  the 
French  express  with  her  maid,  Marie.  She  was  alone  at 
home.  "Come,  hurry.  Serious  news.  I  am  dying."  And 
the  master  hurried,  though  the  announcement  of  her 
death  did  not  make  much  impression  on  him.  It  was 
probably  some  trifle.  He  was  used  to  the  countess's 
exaggeration. 

The  spacious  house  of  the  Albercas  was  dark,  dusty 
and  echoing  like  all  deserted  buildings.  The  only  servant 
who  remained  was  the  concierge.  His  children  were 
playing  beside  the  steps  as  if  they  did  not  know  that  the 
lady  of  the  house  had  returned.  Upstairs  the  furniture 
was  wrapped  in  gray  covers,  the  chandeliers  were  veiled 
with  cheese-cloth,  the  house  and  glass  of  the  mirrors  were 
dull  and  lifeless  under  the  coating  of  dust.  Marie  opened 
the  door  for  him  and  led  the  way  through  the  dark, 
musty  rooms,  the  windows  closed,  and  the  curtains  down, 
without  any  light  except  what  came  through  the  cracks. 


208  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

In  the  reception  hall  he  ran  into  several  trunks,  still 
unpacked,  dropped  and  forgotten  in  the  haste  of  ar- 
rival. 

At  the  end  of  this  pilgrimage,  almost  feeling  his  way 
through  the  deserted  house,  he  saw  a  spot  of  light,  the 
door  of  the  countess's  bedroom,  the  only  room  that  was 
alive,  lighted  up  by  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  Concha 
was  there  beside  the  window,  buried  in  a  chair,  her  brow 
contracted,  her  glance  lost  in  the  distance,  her  face 
tinged  with  the  orange  of  the  dying  light. 

Seeing  the  painter  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  stretched 
out  her  arms  and  ran  toward  hirr^  as  if  she  were  fleeing 
from  pursuit. 

"Mariano!  Master!  He  has  gone!  He  has  left  me 
forever!" 

Her  voice  was  a  wail ;  she  threw  her  arms  around  him, 
burying  her  face  in  his  shoulder,  wetting  his  beard  with 
the  tears  that  began  to  fall  from  her  eyes  drop  by  drop. 

Renovales,  under  the  impulse  of  his  surprise,  repelled 
her  gently  and  he  made  her  go  back  to  her  chair. 

"Who  has  gone  away?    Who  is  it?    Darwin?" 

Yes;  he.  It  was  all  over.  The  countess  could  hardly 
talk;  a  painful  sob  interrupted  her  words.  She  was 
enraged  to  see  herself  deserted  and  her  pride  trampled 
on ;  her  whole  body  trembled.  He  had  fled  at  the  height 
of  their  happiness,  when  she  thought  that  she  was  surest 
of  him,  when  they  enjoyed  a  liberty  they  had  never 
known.  He  was  tired  of  her;  he  still  loved  her, — as  he 
said  in  a  letter, — but  he  wanted  to  be  free  to  continue 
his  studies.  He  was  grateful  to  her  for  her  kindness, 
surfeited  with  so  much  love,  and  he  fled  to  go  into  se- 
clusion abroad  and  become  a  great  man,  not  thinking 
any  more  about  women.  This  was  the  purpose  of  the 
brief  lines  he  had  sent  her  on  his  disappearance.  A  lie, 
an  absolute  lie!  She  saw  something  else.  The  wretch 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  209 

had  run  away  with  a  cocotte  who  was  the  cynosure  of 
all  eyes  on  the  beach  at  Biarritz.  An  ugly  thing,  who 
had  some  vulgar  charm  about  her,  for  all  the  men  raved 
over  her.  That  young  "sport"  was  tired  of  respectable 
people.  He  probably  was  offended  because  she  had  not 
secured  him  the  professorship,  because  he  had  not  been 
made  a  deputy.  Heavens!  How  was  she  to  blame  for 
her  failure  ?  Had  she  not  done  everything  she  could  ? 

"Oh,  Mariano.  I  know  I  am  going  to  die.  This 
is  not  love;  I  no  longer  care  for  him.  I  detest  him! 
It  is  rage,  indignation.  I  would  like  to  get  hold  of  the 
little  whipper-snapper,  to  choke  him.  Think  of  all  the 
foolish  things  I  have  done  for  him.  Heavens!  Where 
were  my  eyes !" 

As  soon  as  she  discovered  that  she  had  been  deserted, 
her  only  thought  was  to  find  her  good  friend,  her  coun- 
selor, her  "brother,"  to  go  to  Madrid,  to  see  Renovales 
and  tell  him  everything,  everything!  impelled  by  the 
necessity  of  confessing  to  him  even  secrets  whose  mem- 
ory made  her  blush. 

She  had  no  one  in  the  world  who  loved  her  disinterest- 
edly, no  one  except  the  master,  and  with  the  panicky 
haste  of  a  traveler  who  is  lost  at  night,  in  the  midst  of  a 
desert,  she  had  run  to  him,  seeking  warmth  and  protec- 
tion. 

This  longing  for  protection  came  back  to  her  in  the 
master's  presence.  She  went  to  him  again,  clinging  to 
him,  sobbing  in  hysteric  fear,  as  if  she  were  surrounded 
by  dangers. 

"Master,  you  are  all  I  have;  you  are  my  life!  You 
won't  ever  leave  me,  will  you?  You  will  always  be  my 
brother?" 

Renovales,  bewildered  at  the  unexpectedness  of  this 
scene,  at  the  submission  of  that  woman  who  had  always 
repelled  him  and  now  suddenly  clung  to  him,  unable  to 


210  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

stand  unless  her  arms  were  clasped  about  his  neck,  tried 
to  free  himself  from  her  arms. 

After  the  first  surprise,  the  old  coldness  came  over 
him.  He  was  irritated  at  this  proud  despair  that  was 
another's  work. 

The  woman  he  had  longed  for,  the  woman  of  his 
dreams  came  to  him,  seemed  to  give  herself  to  him  with 
hysteric  sobs,  eager  to  overwhelm  him,  perhaps  without 
realizing  what  she  was  doing  in  the  thoughtlessness  of 
her  abnormal  state;  but  he  pushed  her  back,  with  sud- 
den terror,  hesitating  and  timid  in  the  face  of  the  deed, 
pained  that  the  realization  of  his  dreams  came,  not  volun- 
tarily but  under  the  influence  of  disappointment  and  de- 
sertion. 

Concha  pressed  close  to  him,  eager  to  feel  the  protec- 
tion of  his  powerful  body. 

"Master !  My  friend !  You  won't  leave  me !  You  are 
so  good!" 

And  closing  her  eyes  that  no  longer  wept,  she  kissed 
his  strong  neck,  and  looked  up  with  her  eyes  still  moist, 
seeking  his  face  in  the  shadow.  They  could  hardly  see 
each  other ;  the  room  was  dim  with  mysterious  twilight, — 
all  its  objects  indistinct  as  in  a  dream,  the  dangerous 
hour  that  had  attracted  them  for  the  first  time  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  studio. 

Suddenly  she  drew  away  in  terror,  fleeing  from  him, 
taking  refuge  in  the  gloom,  pursued  by  his  eager  hands. 

"No,  not  that.  We'll  be  sorry  for  it!  Friends! 
Nothing  more  than  friends  and  always !" 

Her  voice,  as  she  said  this,  was  sincere,  but  weak,  faint, 
the  voice  of  a  victim  who  resists  and  has  not  the  strength 
to  defend  himself. 

When  the  painter  awakened  it  was  night.  The  light 
from  the  street  lamps  shone  through  the  window  with  a 
distant,  reddish  glow. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  811 

He  shivered  with  a  sensation  of  cold,  as  if  he  were 
emerging  from  under  an  enticing  wave  where  he  had 
lain,  he  could  not  remember  how  long.  He  felt  weak, 
humiliated,  with  the  anxiety  of  a  child  who  has  done 
something  wrong. 

Concha  was  sobbing.  What  folly !  It  had  been  against 
her  will ;  she  knew  they  would  be  sorry  for  it.  But  she 
was  the  first  to  recover  her  calmness.  Her  outline  rose 
on  the  bright  background  of  the  window.  She  called 
the  painter  who  stood  in  the  shadow,  ashamed. 

"After  all,  there  was  no  escape,"  she  said  firmly.  "It 
was  a  dangerous  game  and  it  could  not  end  in  any  other 
way.  Now  I  know  that  I  cared  for  you ;  that  you  are  the 
only  man  for  whom  I  can  care." 

Renovales  was  beside  her.  Their  two  forms  made  a 
single  outline  on  the  bright  background  of  the  window, 
in  a  supreme  embrace  as  though  they  desired  to  take 
refuge  in  each  other. 

Her  hands  gently  parted  the  heavy  locks  that  hid  the 
master's  forehead.  She  gazed  at  him  rapturously.  Then 
she  kissed  his  lips  with  an  endless  caress,  whispering: 

"Mariano,  dear.  I  love  you,  I  worship  you.  I  will 
be  your  slave.  Don't  ever  leave  me.  I  will  seek  you  on 
my  knees.  You  don't  know  how  I  will  care  for  you. 
You  shall  not  escape  me.  You  wanted  it, — you  ugly 
darling,  you  big  giant,  my  love." 


ONE  afternoon  at  the  end  of  October,  Renovales 
noticed  that  his  friend  Cotoner  was  rather  worried. 

The  master  was  jesting  with  him,  making  him  tell 
about  his  labors  as  restorer  of  paintings  in  the  old  church. 
He  had  come  back  fatter  and  merrier,  with  a  greasy, 
priestly  luster.  According  to  Renovales  he  had  brought 
back  all  the  health  of  the  clerics.  The  bishop's  table 
with  its  succulent  abundance  was  a  sweet  memory  for 
Cotoner.  He  extolled  it  and  described  it,  praising  those 
good  gentlemen  who,  like  himself,  lived  free  from  pas- 
sion with  no  other  voluptuousness  in  life  than  a  refined 
appetite.  The  master  laughed  at  the  thought  of  the 
simplicity  of  those  priests  who  in  the  afternoon,  after 
the  choir,  formed  a  group  around  Cotoner's  scaffold, 
following  the  movements  of  his  hands  with  wondering 
eyes ;  at  the  respect  of  the  attendants  and  other  servants 
of  the  episcopal  palace,  hanging  on  Don  Jose's  words,  as- 
tonished to  find  such  modesty  in  an  artist  who  was  a 
friend  of  cardinals  and  had  studied  in  Rome. 

When  the  master  saw  him  so  serious  and  silent  that 
afternoon  after  luncheon  he  wanted  to  know  what  was 
worrying  him.  Had  they  complained  of  his  restoration? 
Was  his  money  gone?  Cotoner  shook  his  head.  It  was 
not  his  affairs ;  he  was  worrying  over  Josephina's  condi- 
tion. Had  he  not  noticed  her? 

Renovales  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  the  usual 
trouble:  neurasthenia,  diabetes,  all  those  chronic  ailments 
of  which  she  did  not  want  to  be  cured,  refusing  to  obey 
the  physicians.  She  was  thinner,  but  her  nerves  seemed 

212 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  213 

calmer;  she  cried  less;  she  maintained  a  sad  silence, 
simply  wanting  to  be  alone  and  stay  in  a  corner,  staring 
into  space. 

Cotoner  shook  his  head  again.  Renovales'  optimism 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at. 

"You  are  leading  a  strange  life,  Mariano.  Since  I 
came  back  from  my  trip,  you  are  a  different  man;  I 
wouldn't  know  you.  Once,  you  could  not  live  without 
painting  and  now  you  spend  weeks  at  a  time  without 
taking  up  a  brush.  You  smoke,  sing,  walk  up  and  down 
the  studio  and  all  at  once  rush  off,  out  of  the  house  and 
go — well.  I  know  where,  and  perhaps  your  wife  sus- 
pects it.  You  seem  to  be  having  a  good  time,  master. 
The  deuce  take  the  rest!  But,  man  alive,  come  down 
from  the  clouds.  See  what  is  around  you;  have  some 
charity." 

And  good  Cotoner  complained  bitterly  of  the  life  the 
master  was  leading — disturbed  by  sudden  impatience  and 
hasty  departures,  from  which  he  returned  absent-minded, 
with  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  vague  look  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  he  still  relished  the  feast  of  memories  he 
carried  in  his  mind. 

The  old  painter  seemed  alarmed  at  Josephina's  increas- 
ing delicacy,  acute  consumption  that  still  found  matter 
to  destroy  in  her  organism  wasted  by  years  of  illness. 
The  poor  little  woman  coughed  constantly  and  this  cough, 
that  was  not  dry  but  prolonged  and  violent,  alarmed 
Cotoner. 

"The  doctors  ought  to  see  her  again." 

"The  doctors!"  exclaimed  Renovales,  "What's  the  use? 
A  whole  medical  faculty  has  been  here  and  to  no  avail. 
She  doesn't  mind  them;  she  refuses  everything,  perhaps 
to  annoy  me,  to  oppose  me.  There's  no  danger;  you 
don't  know  her.  Weak  and  small  as  she  is,  she  will 
outlive  you  and  me." 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

His  voice  shook  with  wrath,  as  if  he  could  not  stand 
the  atmosphere  of  that  house  where  the  only  distrac- 
tions he  found  were  the  pleasant  memories  that  took  him 
away  from  it. 

Cotoner's  insistence  finally  forced  him  to  call  a  doctor 
who  was  a  friend  of  his. 

Josephina  was  provoked,  divining  the  cause  of  their 
anxiety.  She  felt  strong.  It  was  nothing  but  a  cold;  the 
coming  of  winter.  And  in  her  glances  at  the  artist  there 
was  reproach  and  insult  for  his  attention  which  she  re- 
garded as  hypocrisy. 

When  the  doctor  and  the  painter  returned  to  the  studio 
after  the  examination  of  the  patient  and  stood  face  to 
face,  the  former  hesitated  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  formu- 
late his  ideas.  He  could  not  say  anything  with  certainty ; 
it  was  easy  to  make  a  mistake  in  regard  to  that  weak  sys- 
tem that  maintained  itself  only  by  its  extraordinary 
reserve  power.  Then  he  had  recourse  to  the  usual  evasive 
measure  of  his  profession.  He  advised  him  to  take  her 
away  from  Madrid,  a  change  of  air, — a  change  of  life. 

Reno  vales  objected.  Where  could  she  go,  now  that 
winter  was  beginning,  when  at  the  height  of  summer  she 
had  wanted  to  come  home?  The  doctor  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  wrote  out  a  prescription,  revealing  in  his 
expression  the  desire  to  write  something,  not  to  go  away 
without  leaving  a  piece  of  paper  as  a  trace.  He  ex- 
plained various  symptoms  to  the  husband  in  order  that 
he  might  observe  them  in  the  patient  and  he  went  away 
shrugging  his  shoulders  again  with  a  gesture  that  re- 
vealed indecision  and  dejection. 

Pshaw !  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps !  The  system  some- 
times has  unexpected  reactions,  wonderful  reserve  power 
to  resist  disease. 

This  enigmatic  consolation  alarmed  Renovales.  He 
spied  on  his  wife,  studying  her  cough,  watching  her 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  SI 5 

closely  when  she  did  not  see  him.  They  no  longer  spent 
the  night  together.  Since  Milita's  marriage,  the  father 
occupied  her  room.  They  had  broken  the  slavery  of  the 
common  bed  that  tormented  their  rest.  Renovales  made 
up  for  this  departure  by  going  into  Josephina's  chamber 
every  morning. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  night?  Do  you  want  some- 
thing?" 

His  wife's  eyes  greeted  him  with  hostility. 

"Nothing." 

And  she  accompanied  this  brief  statement  by  turning 
over  in  the  bed,  disdainfully,  with  her  back  to  the  master. 

The  painter  received  these  evidences  of  hostility  with 
quiet  resignation.  It  was  his  duty;  perhaps  she  might 
die !  But  this  possibility  of  death  did  not  stir  him ;  it  left 
him  cold  and  he  was  angry  at  himself,  as  if  two  distinct 
personalities  existed  within  him.  He  reproached  himself 
for  his  cruelty,  his  icy  indifference  before  the  invalid  who 
now  produced  in  him  only  a  passing  remorse. 

One  afternoon  at  the  Alberca  woman's  house,  after  one 
of  their  daring  meetings  with  which  they  defied  the 
holy  calm  of  the  noble,  who  had  now  returned  from  his 
trip,  the  painter  spoke  timidly  of  his  wife. 

"I  shall  have  to  come  less;  don't  be  surprised.  Jo- 
sephina  is  very  ill." 

"Very?"  asked  Concha. 

And  in  the  flash  of  her  glance,  Renovales  thought  he 
saw  something  familiar,  a  blue  gleam  that  had  danced 
before  him  in  the  darkness  of  the  night  with  infernal 
glow,  troubling  his  conscience. 

"No,  maybe  it  isn't  anything.  I  don't  believe  there  is 
any  danger." 

He  felt  forced  to  lie.  It  consoled  him  to  discount  her 
illness.  He  felt  that,  by  this  voluntary  deceit,  he  was 
relieving  himself  of  the  anxiety  that  goaded  him.  It  was 


216  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  lie  of  the  man  who  justifies  himself  by  pretending  not 
to  know  the  depth  of  the  harm  he  has  caused. 

"It  isn't  anything,"  he  said  to  his  daughter,  who,  greatly 
alarmed  at  her  mother's  appearance,  came  to  spend  every 
night  with  her.  "Just  a  cold.  It  will  disappear  as  soon 
as  good  weather  comes." 

He  had  a  fire  in  every  fireplace  in  the  house;  the 
rooms  were  as  hot  as  a  furnace.  He  declared  loudly, 
without  any  show  of  excitement,  that  his  wife  was  merely 
suffering  from  a  slight  cold,  and  as  he  spoke  with  such 
assurance,  a  strange  voice  seemed  to  cry  within  him: 
"You  lie,  she  is  dying ;  she  is  dying  and  you  know  it." 

The  symptoms  of  which  the  doctor  had  spoken  began 
to  appear  with  ominous  regularity  in  fatal  succession. 
At  first  he  noticed  only  a  constant  high  fever  that  seemed 
to  grow  worse  with  severe  chills  at  the  end  of  the  after- 
noon. Then  he  observed  sweats  that  were  terrifying  in 
their  frequency — sweats  at  night  that  left  the  print  of 
her  body  on  the  sheets.  And  that  poor  body,  which  grew 
more  fragile,  more  like  a  skeleton,  as  if  the  fire  of  the 
fever  were  devouring  the  last  particle  of  fat  and  muscle, 
was  left  without  any  other  covering  and  protection  than 
the  skin,  and  that  too  seemed  to  be  melting  away.  She 
coughed  frequently ;  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  her 
painful  hacking  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  house.  She 
complained  of  a  continual  pain  in  the  lower  part  of  her 
chest.  Her  daughter  made  her  eat  by  dint  of  coaxing, 
lifting  the  spoon  to  her  mouth,  as  if  she  were  a  child. 
But  coughing  and  nausea  made  nutrition  impossible.  Her 
tongue  was  dry;  she  complained  of  an  infernal  thirst 
that  was  devouring  her. 

Thus  passed  a  month.  Renovales,  in  his  optimistic 
mood,  strove  to  believe  that  her  illness  would  not  last 
long. 

"She  is  not  dying,  Pepe,"  he  would  say  in  a  convinced 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  217 

tone,  as  if  he  were  disposed  to  quarrel  with  anyone  who 
opposed  this  statement.  "She  is  not  dying,  doctor.  You 
don't  think  she  is,  do  you?" 

The  doctor  would  answer  with  his  everlasting  shrug. 
"Perhaps, — it's  possible."  And  as  the  patient  refused 
to  submit  to  an  internal  examination,  he  was  forced  to 
inquire  of  the  daughter  and  husband  about  the  symptoms. 

In  spite  of  her  extreme  emaciation,  some  parts  of  her 
body  seemed  to  be  undergoing  an  abnormal  swelling. 
Renovales  questioned  the  doctor  frankly.  What  did  he 
think  of  these  symptoms?  And  the  doctor  bowed  his 
head.  He  did  not  know.  They  must  wait :  Nature  has 
surprises.  But  afterward,  with  sudden  decision,  he  pre- 
tended that  he  wanted  to  write  a  prescription,  in  order 
that  he  might  talk  with  the  husband  alone  in  his  working 
studio. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Renovales,  this  pitiful  comedy  is 
getting  tiresome.  It  may  be  all  right  for  the  others  but 
you  are  a  man.  It  is  acute  consumption;  perhaps  a 
matter  of  days,  perhaps  a  matter  of  a  few  months;  but 
she  is  dying  and  I  know  no  remedy.  If  you  want  to, 
get  some  one  else." 

"She  is  dying!"  Renovales  was  dazed  with  surprise 
as  if  the  possibility  of  this  outcome  had  never  occurred 
to  him.  "She  is  dying !"  And  when  the  doctor  had  gone 
away,  with  a  firmer  step  than  usual,  as  if  he  had  freed 
himself  of  a  weight,  the  painter  repeated  the  words  to 
himself,  without  their  producing  any  other  effect  than 
leaving  him  abstracted  in  senseless  stupidity.  She  is 
dying !  But  was  it  really  possible  that  that  little  woman 
could  die,  who  had  so  weighed  on  his  life  and  whose 
weakness  filled  him  with  fear? 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  walking  up  and  down  the 
studio,  repeating  aloud, 

"She  is  dying!    She  is  dying!" 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

He  said  it  to  himself  in  order  that  he  might  make 
himself  feel  sorry,  and  break  out  into  sobs  of  grief,  but 
he  remained  mute. 

Josephina  was  going  to  die — and  he  was  calm.  He 
wanted  to  weep;  it  seemed  to  him  a  duty.  He  blinked, 
swelling  out  his  chest,  holding  his  breath,  trying  to  take 
in  the  whole  meaning  of  his  sorrow;  but  his  eyes  re- 
mained dry;  his  lungs  breathed  the  air  with  pleasure; 
his  thoughts,  hard  and  refractory,  did  not  shudder  with 
any  painful  image.  It  was  an  exterior  grief  that  found 
expression  only  in  words,  gestures  and  excited  walking, 
his  interior  continued  its  old  stolidness,  as  if  the  cer- 
tainty of  that  death  had  congealed  it  in  peaceful  indif- 
ference. 

The  shame  of  his  villainy  tormented  him.  The  same 
instinct  that  forces  ascetics  to  submit  themselves  to 
mortal  punishments  for  their  imaginary  sins  dragged 
him  with  the  power  of  remorse  to  the  sick  chamber.  He 
would  not  leave  the  room;  he  would  face  her  scornful 
silence;  he  would  stay  with  her  till  the  end,  forgetting 
sleep  and  hunger.  He  felt  that  he  must  purify  himself 
by  some  noble,  generous  sacrifice  from  this  blindness  of 
soul  that  now  was  terrifying. 

Milita  no  longer  spent  the  nights  caring  for  hdr 
mother  and  would  go  home,  somewhat  to  the  discom- 
fiture of  her  husband,  who  had  been  rather  pleased  at 
this  unexpected  return  to  a  bachelor's  life. 

Renovales  did  not  sleep.  After  midnight  when  Co- 
toner  went  away  he  walked  in  silence  through  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  rooms;  he  prowled  around  the  chamber — 
entered  it  to  see  Josephina  in  bed,  sweating,  shaken  from 
time  to  time  by  a  fit  of  coughing  or  in  a  deathlike  leth- 
argy, so  thin  and  small  that  the  bedclothes  hardly  showed 
the  childlike  outline  of  her  body.  Then  the  master 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

passed  the  rest  of  the  night  in  an  armchair,  smoking, 
his  eyes  staring  but  his  brain  drowsy  with  sleep. 

His  thoughts  were  far  away.  There  was  no  use  in 
feeling  ashamed  of  his  cruelty;  he  seemed  bewitched  by 
a  mysterious  power  that  was  superior  to  his  remorse. 
He  forgot  the  sick  woman;  he  wondered  what  Concha 
was  doing  at  that  time ;  he  saw  her  in  fancy ;  he  remem- 
bered her  words,  her  caresses ;  he  thought  of  their  nights 
of  abandon.  And  when,  with  a  violent  effort,  he  threw 
off  these  dreams,  in  expiation  he  would  go  to  the  door 
of  the  sick  chamber  and  listen  to  her  labored  breathing, 
putting  on  a  gloomy  face,  but  unable  to  weep  or  feel 
the  sadness  he  longed  to  feel. 

After  two  months  of  illness,  Josephina  could  no  longer 
stay  in  bed.  Her  daughter  would  lift  her  out  of  it 
without  any  effort  as  if  she  were  a  feather,  and  she 
would  sit  in  a  chair, — small,  insignificant,  unrecognizable, 
her  face  so  emaciated  that  its  only  features  seemed  to  be 
the  deep  hollows  of  her  eyes  and  her  nose,  sharp  as  the 
edge  of  a  knife. 

Cotoner  could  hardly  keep  back  the  tears  when  he  saw 
her. 

"There  isn't  anything  left  of  her!"  he  would  say  as  he 
went  away.  "No  one  would  know  her!" 

Her  harrowing  cough  scattered  a  deathly  poison  about 
her.  White  foam  came  to  her  lips  where  it  seemed  to 
harden  in  the  corners.  Her  eyes  grew  larger,  they  took 
on  a  strange  glow  as  if  they  saw  through  persons  and 
things.  Oh,  those  eyes !  What  a  shudder  of  terror  they 
awakened  in  Renovales ! 

One  afternoon  they  fell  on  him,  with  the  intense, 
searching  glance  that  had  always  terrified  him.  They 
were  eyes  that  pierced  his  forehead,  that  laid  bare  his 
thoughts. 

They  were  alone ;  Milita  had  gone  home ;  Cotoner  was 


220  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

sleeping  in  a  chair  in  the  studio.  The  sick  woman  seemed 
more  animated,  eager  to  talk,  looking  on  her  husband  with 
a  sort  of  pity  as  he  sat  beside  her,  almost  at  her  feet. 

She  was  going  to  die ;  she  was  certain  of  death.  And 
a  last  revolt  of  life  that  recoils  from  the  end,  the  horror 
of  the  unknown,  made  the  tears  rise  to  her  eyes. 

Renovales  protested  violently,  trying  to  conceal  his  de- 
ceit by  his  shouts.  Die?  She  must  not  think  of  that! 
She  would  live;  she  still  had  before  her  many  years  of 
happy  existence. 

She  smiled  as  if  she  pitied  him.  She  could  not  be  de- 
ceived ;  her  eyes  penetrated  farther  than  his ;  she  divined 
the  impalpable,  the  invisible  that  hovered  about  her.  She 
spoke  weakly  but  with  that  inexplicable  solemnity  that 
is  characteristic  of  a  voice  that  emits  its  last  sounds,  of 
a  soul  that  unbosoms  itself  for  the  last  time. 

"I  shall  die,  Mariano,  sooner  than  you  think,  later 
than  I  desire.  I  shall  die  and  you  will  be  free." 

H[e !  He  desire  her  death !  His  surprise  and  remorse 
made  him  jump  to  his  feet,  wave  his  arms  in  angry  pro- 
test, writhe,  as  if  a  pair  of  invisible  hands  had  just  iaid 
him  bare  with  a  rude  wrench. 

"Josephina,  don't  rave.  Calm  yourself.  For  God's 
sake  don't  talk  such  nonsense !" 

She  smiled  with  a  painful,  horrible  expression,  but 
immediately  her  poor  face  became  beautiful  with  the 
serenity  of  one  who  is  departing  this  life  without  hal- 
lucinations or  delirium,  in  perfect  mental  poise.  She 
spoke  to  him  with  the  immense  sympathy,  the  super- 
human compassion  of  one  who  contemplates  the  wretched 
stream  of  life,  departing  from  its  current,  already  touch- 
ing with  her  feet  the  shores  of  eternal  shadow,  of  eternal 
peace. 

"I  should  not  want  to  go  away  without  telling  you.  I 
die  knowing  everything.  Do  not  move;  do  not  protest. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  221 

You  know  the  power  I  have  over  you.  More  than  once 
I  have  seen  you  watching  me  in  terror,  so  easily  do  I  read 
your  thoughts.  For  years  I  have  been  convinced  that 
all  was  over  between  us.  We  have  lived  like  good  crea- 
tures of  God — eating  together,  sleeping  together,  helping 
each  other  in  our  needs.  But  I  peered  within  you;  I 
looked  at  your  heart.  Nothing!  Not  a  memory,  not  a 
spark  of  love.  I  have  been  your  woman,  the  good  com- 
panion who  cares  for  the  house,  and  relieves  a  man  of 
the  petty  cares  of  life.  You  have  worked  hard  to  sur- 
round me  with  comforts,  in  order  that  I  might  be  con- 
tented and  not  disturb  you.  But  Love?  Never.  Many 
people  live  as  we  have — many  of  them;  almost  all.  I 
could  not;  I  thought  that  life  was  something  different 
and  I  am  not  sorry  to  go  away.  Don't  go  into  a  rage; 
don't  shout.  You  aren't  to  blame,  poor  Mariano —  It 
was  a  mistake  for  us  to  marry." 

She  excused  him  gently  with  a  kindness  that  seemed 
not  of  this  world,  generously  passing  over  the  cruelty 
and  selfishness  of  a  life  she  was  about  to  leave.  Men 
like  him  were  exceptional;  they  ought  to  live  alone,  by 
themselves,  like  those  great  trees  that  absorb  all  the  life 
from  the  ground  and  do  not  allow  a  single  plant  to  grow 
in  the  space  which  their  roots  reach.  She  was  not  strong 
enough  to  stand  isolation ;  in  order  to  live  she  must  have 
the  shadow  of  tenderness,  the  certainty  of  being  loved. 
She  ought  to  have  married  a  man  like  other  men;  a 
simple  being  like  herself,  whose  only  longings  were  mod- 
est and  commonplace.  The  painter  had  dragged  her  into 
his  extraordinary  path  out  of  the  easy,  well-beaten  roads 
that  the  rest  follow  and  she  was  falling  by  the  wayside, 
old  in  the  prime  of  her  youth,  broken  because  she  had 
gone  with  him  in  this  journey  which  was  beyond  her 
strength. 

Renovales  was  walking  about  with  ceaseless  protests. 


222  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Why,  what  nonsense  you  are  talking!  You  are  rav- 
ing! I  have  always  loved  you,  Josephina.  I  love  you 
now/' 

Her  eyes  suddenly  became  hard.  A  flash  of  anger 
crossed  their  pupils. 

"Stop;  don't  lie.  I  know  of  a  pile  of  letters  that  you 
have  in  your  studio,  hidden  behind  the  books  in  your 
library. .  I  have  read  them  one  by  one.  I  have  been  fol- 
lowing them  as  they  came;  I  discovered  your  hiding 
place  when  you  had  only  three  of  them.  You  know  that 
I  see  through  you;  that  I  have  a  power  over  you,  that 
you  can  hide  nothing  from  me.  I  know  your  love  af- 
fairs." 

Renovales  felt  his  ears  buzzing,  the  floor  slipping  from 
under  his  feet.  What  astounding  witchcraft!  Even  the 
letters  so  carefully  hidden  had  been  discovered  by  that 
woman's  divining  instinct! 

"It's  a  lie!"  he  cried  vehemently  to  conceal  his  agita- 
tion. "It  isn't  love !  If  you  have  read  them,  you  know 
what  it  is  as  well  as  I;  just  friendship;  the  letters  of  a 
friend  who  is  somewhat  crazy." 

The  sick  woman  smiled  sadly.  At  first  it  was  friend- 
ship— even  less  than  that,  the  perverse  amusement  of  a 
flighty  woman  who  liked  to  play  with  a  celebrated  man, 
exciting  in  him  the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  She  knew  her 
childhood  companion;  she  was  sure  it  would  not  go  any 
farther;  and  so  she  pitied  the  poor  man  in  the  midst  of 
his  mad  love.  But  afterward  something  extraordinary 
had  certainly  happened ;  something  that  she  could  not 
explain  and  which  had  upset  all  of  her  calculations.  Now 
her  husband  and  Concha  were  lovers. 

"Do  not  deny  it ;  it  is  useless.  It  is  this  certainty  that 
is  killing  me.  I  realized  it  when  I  saw  you  distracted, 
with  a  happy  smile  as  if  you  were  relishing  your  thoughts. 
I  realized  it  in  the  merry  songs  you  sang  when  you  awoke 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  333 

in  the  morning,  in  the  perfume  with  which  you  were  im- 
pregnated and  which  followed  you  everywhere.  I  did 
not  need  to  find  any  more  letters.  The  odor  around 
you,  that  perfume  of  infidelity,  of  sin,  which  always  ac- 
companied you,  was  enough.  You,  poor  man,  came  home 
thinking  that  everything  was  left  outside  the  door,  and 
that  odor  follows  you,  denounces  you ;  I  think  I  can  still 
perceive  it." 

And  her  nostrils  dilated,  as  she  breathed  with  a  pained 
expression,  closing  her  eyes  as  though  she  wished  to 
escape  the  images  which  that  perfume  called  up  in  her. 
Her  husband  persisted  in  his  denials,  now  that  he  was 
convinced  that  she  had  no  other  proof  of  his  infidelity. 
A  lie !  An  hallucination ! 

"No,  Mariano,"  murmured  the  sick  woman.  "She  is 
within  you ;  she  fills  your  head ;  from  here  I  can  see  her. 
Once  a  thousand  mad  fancies  occupied  her  place, — il- 
lusions of  your  taste,  naked  women,  a  wantonness  that 
was  your  religion.  Now  it  is  she  who  fills  it.  It  is  your 
desire  incarnated.  Go  on  and  be  happy.  I  am  going 
away — there  is  no  place  for  me  in  the  world." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  the  tears  came  to  her 
eyes  again  at  the  memory  of  the  first  years  of  their  life 
together. 

"No  one  has  cared  for  you  as  I  have,  Mariano,"  she 
said  with  tender  regret.  "I  look  on  you  now  as  a 
stranger,  without  affection  and  without  hate.  And  still, 
there  was  never  a  woman  who  loved  her  husband  so 
passionately." 

"I  worship  you.  Josephina,  I  love  you  just  as  I  did 
when  we  first  met  each  other.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

But  in  spite  of  the  emotion  he  pretended  to  show, 
his  voice  had  a  false  ring. 

"Don't  try  to  bluff,  Mariano ;  it  is  useless ;  everything 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

is  over.  You  do  not  care  for  me  nor  have  I  either  any 
of  the  old  feeling." 

In  her  face  there  was  an  expression  of  wonder,  of 
surprise ;  she  seemed  terror-stricken  at  her  own  calmness 
that  made  her  forgive  thus  indifferently  the  man  who  had 
caused  her  so  much  suffering.  In  her  fancy,  she  saw  a 
wide  garden,  flowers  that  seemed  immortal  and  they  were 
withering  and  falling  with  the  advent  of  winter.  Then 
her  thoughts  went  beyond,  over  the  chill  of  death.  The 
snow  was  melting;  the  sun  was  shining  once  more;  the 
new  spring  was  coming  with  its  court  of  love  and  the 
dry  branches  were  growing  green  once  more  with  an- 
other life. 

"Who  knows!"  murmured  the  sick  woman  with  her 
eyes  closed.  "Perhaps,  after  I  am  dead,  you  will  remem- 
ber me.  Perhaps  you  will  care  for  me  then,  and  be  grate- 
ful to  one  who  loved  you  so.  We  want  a  thing  when 
it  is  lost." 

The  invalid  was  silent,  exhausted  by  such  an  effort; 
she  relapsed  into  that  lethargy  which  for  her  took  the 
place  of  rest.  Renovales,  after  this  conversation,  felt 
his  vile  inferiority  beside  his  wife.  She  knew  everything 
and  forgave  him.  She  had  followed  the  course  of  his 
love,  letter  by  letter,  look  by  look,  seeing  in  his  smiles 
the  memory  of  his  faithlessness.  And  she  was  silent ! 
She  was  dying  without  a  protest !  And  he  did  not  fall 
at  her  feet  to  beg  her  forgiveness!  And  he  remained 
unmoved,  without  a  tear,  without  a  sigh ! 

He  was  afraid  to  stay  alone  with  her.  Milita  came 
back  to  stay  at  the  house  to  care  for  her  mother.  The 
master  took  refuge  in  his  studio;  he  wanted  to  forget 
in  work  the  body  that  was  dying  under  the  same  roof. 

But  in  vain  he  poured  colors  on  his  palette  and  took 
up  brushes  and  prepared  canvases.  He  did  nothing  but 
daub ;  he  could  make  no  progress,  as  if  he  had  forgotten 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  225 

his  art.  He  kept  turning  his  head  anxiously,  thinking 
that  Josephina  was  going  to  enter  suddenly,  to  continue 
that  interview  in  which  she  had  laid  bare  the  greatness 
of  her  soul  and  the  baseness  of  his  own.  He  felt  forced 
to  return  to  her  apartments,  to  go  on  tiptoe  to  the  door 
of  the  chamber,  in  order  to  be  sure  that  she  was  there. 

Her  emaciation  was  frightful ;  it  had  no  limits.  When 
it  seemed  that  it  must  stop,  it  still  surprised  them  with 
new  shrinking,  as  if  after  the  disappearance  of  her  flesh, 
her  poor  skeleton  was  melting  away. 

Sometimes  she  was  tormented  with  delirium,  and  her 
daughter,  holding  back  her  tears,  approved  of  the  ex- 
travagant trips  she  planned,  of  her  proposals  to  go  far 
away  to  live  with  Milita  in  a  garden,  where  they  would 
find  no  men ;  where  there  were  no  painters — no  painters. 

She  lived  about  two  weeks.  Renovales,  with  cruel 
selfishness,  was  anxious  to  rest,  complaining  of  this  ab- 
normal existence.  If  she  must  die,  why  did  she  not  end 
it  as  soon  as  possible,  and  restore  the  whole  house  to 
tranquillity ! 

The  end  came  one  afternoon  when  the  master,  lying 
on  a  couch  in  his  studio,  was  re-reading  the  tender  com- 
plaints of  a  scented  little  letter.  So  long  since  she  had 
seen  him !  How  was  the  patient  getting  on  ?  She  knew 
that  his  duty  was  there ;  people  would  talk  if  he  came  to 
see  her.  But  this  separation  was  hard! 

He  did  not  have  a  chance  to  finish  it.  Milita  came 
into  the  studio,  in  her  eyes  that  expression  of  horror 
and  fright,  which  the  presence  of  death,  the  touch  of  his 
passage,  always  inspires,  even  if  his  arrival  has  been  ex- 
pected. 

Her  voice  came  breathlessly,  broken.  Mamma  was 
talking  with  her;  she  was  amusing  her  with  the  hope  of 
a  trip  in  the  near  future, — and  all  at  once  a  hoarse  sound, 


226  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

— her  head  bent  forward  before  it  fell  onto  her  shoulder 
— a  moment — nothing — just  like  a  little  bird. 

Renovales  ran  to  the  bedroom,  bumping  into  his 
friend  Cotoner  who  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  run- 
ning too.  They  saw  her  in  an  armchair,  shrunken, 
wilted,  in  the  deathly  abandon  that  converts  the  body  into 
a  limp  mass.  All  was  over. 

Milita  had  to  catch  her  father,  to  hold  him  up.  She 
had  to  be  the  one  who  kept  her  calmness  and  energy  at 
the  critical  moment.  Renovales  let  his  daughter  lead 
him;  he  rested  his  face  on  her  shoulder,  with  sublime, 
dramatic  grief,  with  beautiful,  artistic  despair,  still  hold- 
ing absent-mindedly  in  his  hand  the  letter  of  the  countess. 

"Courage,  Mariano,"  said  poor  Cotoner,  his  voice 
choked  with  tears.  "We  must  be  men.  Milita,  take  your 
father  to  the  studio.  Don't  let  him  see  her." 

The  master  let  his  daughter  guide  him,  sighing  deeply, 
trying  in  vain  to  weep.  The  tears  would  not  come.  He 
could  not  concentrate  his  attention;  a  voice  within  him 
was  distracting  him, — the  voice  of  temptation. 

She  was  dead  and  he  was  free.  He  would  go  on  his 
way,  light-hearted,  master  of  himself,  relieved  of  trouble- 
some hindrances.  Before  him  lay  life  with  all  its  joys, 
love  without  a  fear  or  a  scruple;  glory  with  its  sweet 
returns. 

Life  was  going  to  begin  again. 


PART  III 


UNTIL  the  beginning  of  the  following  winter  Reno- 
vales  did  not  return  to  Madrid.  The  death  of  his  wife 
had  left  him  stunned,  as  if  he  doubted  its  reality,  as  if  he 
felt  strange  at  finding  himself  alone  and  master  of  his 
actions.  Cotoner,  seeing  that  he  had  no  ambition  for 
work  and  would  lie  on  the  couch  in  the  studio  with  a 
blank  expression  on  his  face,  as  if  he  were  in  a  waking 
dream,  interpreted  his  condition  as  a  deep,  silent  grief. 
Besides,  it  irritated  him  that  as  soon  as  Josephina  was 
dead,  the  countess  began  to  come  to  the  house  frequent- 
ly to  see  the  master  and  her  dear  Milita. 

"You  ought  to  go  away," — the  old  artist  advised. 
"You  are  free ;  you  will  be  just  as  well  off  anywhere  as 
here.  What  you  need  is  a  long  journey;  that  will  take 
your  mind  off  your  trouble." 

And  Renovales  started  on  his  journey  with  the  eager- 
ness of  a  school-boy,  free  for  the  first  time  from  the 
vigilance  of  a  family.  Alone,  rich,  master  of  his  ac- 
tions, he  believed  that  he  was  the  happiest  being  on  earth. 
His  daughter  had  her  husband,  a  family  of  her  own;  he 
"saw  himself  in  welcome  seclusion,  without  cares  or  du- 
ties, without  any  other  ties  than  the  constant  letters  of 
Concha,  which  met  him  on  his  travels.  Oh,  happy  free- 
dom! 

He  lived  in  Holland,  studying  its  museums,  which  he 
had  never  seen :  then,  with  the  caprice  of  a  wandering 

227 


228  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

bird,  he  went  down  to  Italy  where  he  enjoyed  several 
months  of  easy  life,  without  any  work,  visiting  studios, 
receiving  the  honors  due  a  famous  master,  in  the  same 
places  where  once  he  had  struggled,  poor  and  unknown. 
Then  he  moved  to  Paris,  finally  attracted  by  the  count- 
ess, who  was  spending  the  summer  at  Biarritz  with  her 
husband. 

Concha's  epistolary  style  grew  more  urgent.  She  had 
numerous  objections  to  a  prolongation  of  the  period  of 
their  separation.  He  must  come  back;  he  had  traveled 
enough.  She  could  not  stand  it  without  seeing  him ;  she 
loved  him ;  she  could  not  live  without  him.  Besides,  as  a 
last  resource,  she  spoke  to  him  of  her  husband,  the  count, 
who,  in  his  eternal  blindness,  joined  in  his  wife's  requests 
asking  her  to  invite  the  artist  to  spend  a  while  at  their 
house  in  Biarritz.  The  poor  painter  must  be  very  sad  in 
his  bereavement  and  the  kindly  nobleman  insisted  on  con- 
soling him  in  his  loneliness.  In  his  house,  they  would  di- 
vert him;  they  would  be  a  new  family  for  him. 

The  painter  lived  for  a  great  part  of  the  summer  and 
all  the  autumn  in  the  welcome  atmosphere  of  that  home 
which  seemed  created  for  him.  The  servants  respected 
him,  seeing  in  him  the  true  master.  The  countess,  delir- 
ious after  his  long  absence,  was  so  reckless  that  the  art- 
ist had  to  restrain  her,  urging  her  to  be  prudent.  The  no- 
ble Count  of  Alberca  was  unceasing  in  his  sympathy. 
Poor  friend !  Deprived  of  his  companion !  And  by  his 
expression  he  shared  the  horror  he  felt  at  the  possibility 
of  being  left  a  widower,  without  that  wife  who  made  him 
so  happy. 

At  the  beginning  of  winter  Renovales  returned  to  his 
house.  He  did  not  experience  the  slightest  emotion  on 
entering  the  three  great  studios,  on  passing  through  those 
rooms,  which  seemed  more  icy,  larger,  more  hollow,  now 
that  they  were  stirred  by  no  other  steps  than  his  own. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  229 


He  could  not  believe  that  a  year  had  passed.  All  was  the 
same  as  if  he  had  been  absent  for  only  a  few  days. 
Cotoner  had  taken  good  care  of  the  house,  setting  to 
work  the  concierge  and  his  wife  and  the  old  servant  who 
had  charge  of  cleaning  the  studios, — the  only  servants 
that  Renovales  had  kept.  There  was  no  dust,  none  of 
the  close  atmosphere  of  a  house  that  has  long  been  closed. 
Everything  appeared  bright  and  clean,  as  if  life  had  not 
been  interrupted  in  that  house.  The  sun  and  air  had  been 
pouring  in  the  windows,  driving  out  that  atmosphere  of 
sickness  which  Renovales  had  left  when  he  went  away 
and  in  which  he  fancied  he  could  feel  the  trace  of  the 
invisible  garb  of  death. 

It  was  a  new  house,  like  the  one  he  had  known  before 
in  form,  but  as  fresh  as  a  recently  constructed  building. 

Outside  of  his  studio  nothing  reminded  him  of  his 
dead  wife.  He  avoided  going  into  her  chamber;  he  did 
not  even  ask  who  had  the  key.  He  slept  in  the  room  that 
had  formerly  been  his  daughter's  in  a  small,  iron  bed, 
delighted  to  lead  a  modest,  sober  life  in  that  princely 
mansion. 

He  took  breakfast  in  the  dining  room  at  one  end  of 
the  table,  on  a  napkin,  oppressed  by  the  size  and  luxury 
of  the -room  which  now  seemed  vast  and  useless.  He 
looked  at  the  chair  beside  the  fireplace,  where  the  dead 
woman  had  often  sat.  That  chair  with  its  open  arms 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  her  trembling,  bird-like  little 
body.  But  the  painter  did  not  feel  any  emotion.  He 
could  not  even  remember  Josephina's  face  exactly.  She 
had  changed  so  much !  The  last,  that  skeleton-like  mask, 
was  the  one  he  recalled  the  best,  but  he  thrust  it  aside, 
with  the  selfishness  of  a  strong,  happy  man,  who  does 
not  want  to  sadden  his  life  with  unpleasant  memories. 

He  did  not  see  her  picture  anywhere  in  the  house.  She 
seemed  to  have  evaporated  forever  without  leaving  the 


230  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

least  trace  of  her  body  on  the  walls  that  had  so  often 
supported  her  tottering  steps,  on  the  stairways  that  hard- 
ly felt  the  weight  of  her  feet.  Nothing;  she  was  quite 
forgotten.  Within  Reno  vales,  the  only  trace  of  the  long 
years  of  their  union  that  remained  was  an  unpleasant 
feeling,  an  annoying  memory  that  made  him  relish  all 
the  more  his  new  existence. 

His  first  days  in  the  solitude  of  the  house  brought  new, 
intense  joys.  After  luncheon  he  would  lie  down  on  the 
couch  in  the  studio,  watching  the  blue  spirals  of  cigar 
smoke.  Complete  liberty!  Alone  in  the  world!  Life 
wholly  to  himself,  without  any  care  or  fear.  He  could 
go  and  come  without  a  pair  of  eyes  spying  on  his  ac- 
tions, without  being  reproached  with  bitter  words.  That 
little  door  of  the  studio,  which  he  used  to  watch  in  ter- 
ror, no  longer  opened,  to  let  in  his  enemy.  He  could 
close  it,  shutting  out  the  world;  he  could  open  it  and 
summon  in  a  noisy,  scandalous  stream,  all  that  he  fan- 
cied— hosts  of  naked  beauties,  to  paint  in  a  wild  bac- 
chanalian rout,  strange,  black-eyed  Oriental  girls  to  dance 
in  morbid  abandon  on  the  rugs  of  the  studio,  all  the  dis- 
ordered illusions  of  his  desire — the  monstrous  feasts  of 
fancy  which  he  had  dreamed  of  in  his  days  of  servitude. 
He  was  not  sure  where'he  could  find  all  this,  he  was  not 
very  eager  to  look  for  it.  But  the  consciousness  that  he 
could  realize  it  without  any  obstacle  was  enough. 

This  consciousness  of  his  absolute  freedom,  instead 
of  urging  him  into  action,  kept  him  in  a  state  of  calm, 
satisfied  that  he  could  do  everything,  without  the  least  de- 
sire to  try  anything.  Formerly  he  used  to  rage,  com- 
plaining of  his  fetters.  What  things  he  would  do  if  he 
were  free !  What  scandals  he  would  cause  with  his  dar- 
ing I  Oh,  if  he  only  were  not  married  to  a  slave  of  con- 
vention who  tried  to  apply  rules  to  his  art  with  the  same 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  231 

formality  which  she  had  for  her  calls  and  her  household 
expenses ! 

And  now  that  the  slave  of  convention  was  gone,  the 
artist  remained  in  sleepy  comfort,  looking  like  a  timid 
lover,  at  the  canvases  he  had  begun  a  year  before,  at  his 
neglected  palette,  saying  with  false  energy,  "This  is  the 
last  day.  To-morrow  I  will  begin." 

And  the  next  day,  noon  came,  and  with  it  luncheon, 
before  Renovales  had  taken  up  a  brush.  He  read  for- 
eign papers,  magazines  on  art,  looking  up,  with  profes- 
sional interest,  what  the  famous  painters  of  Europe  were 
exhibiting  or  working  on.  He  received  a  call  from  some 
of  his  humble  companions,  and  in  their  presence  he  la- 
mented the  insolence  of  the  younger  generation,  their 
disrespectful  attacks,  with  the  surliness  of  a  famous  art- 
ist who  is  getting  old  and  thinks  that  talent  has  died  out 
with  him  and  that  no  one  can  take  his  place.  Then  the 
drowsiness  of  digestion  seized  him,  as  it  did  Cotoner, 
and  he  submitted  to  the  bliss  of  short  naps,  the  happiness 
of  doing  nothing.  His  daughter — all  the  family  he  had 
— would  receive  more  than  she  expected  at  his  death.  He 
had  worked  enough.  Painting,  like  all  the  arts,  was  a 
pretty  deceit,  for  the  advancement  of  which  men  strove 
as  if  they  were  mad,  until  they  hated  it  like  death.  What 
folly!  It  was  better  to  keep  calm,  enjoying  your  own 
life,  intoxicated  with  the  simple  animal  joys,  living  for 
life's  sake.  What  good  were  a  few  more  pictures  in 
those  huge  palaces  filled  with  canvases,  disfigured  by 
the  centuries,  in  which  hardly  a  single  stroke  was  left 
as  the  author  had  made  it  ?  What  good  did  it  do  the  hu- 
man race,  which  changes  its  dwelling  place  every  dozen 
centuries  and  has  seen  the  proud  works  of  man,  built 
of  marble  or  granite,  fall  in  ruins, — if  a  certain  Reno- 
vales  produced  a  few  beautiful  toys  of  cloth  and  colors, 
which  a  cigar  stub  could  destroy,  or  a  puff  of  wind,  a 


232  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

drop  of  water  leaking  through  the  wall,  might  ruin  in  a 
few  years? 

But  this  pessimistic  attitude  disappeared  when  some 
one  called  him  "Illustrious  Master,"  or  when  he  saw  his 
name  in  a  paper,  and  a  pupil  or  admirer  manifested  an 
interest  in  his  work. 

At  present  he  was  resting.  He  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  the  shock.  Poor  Josephina !  But  he  was  going  to 
work  a  great  deal;  he  felt  a  new  strength  for  works 
greater  than  any  that  he  had  thus  far  produced.  And 
after  these  exclamations,  he  would  be  seized  with  a  mad 
desire  for  work  and  would  enumerate  the  pictures  he  had 
in  mind,  dwelling  upon  their  originality.  They  were  bold 
problems  in  color,  new  technical  methods  that  had 
occurred  to  him.  But  these  plans  never  passed  the  lim- 
its of  speech,  they  never  reached  the  brush.  The  springs 
of  his  will,  once  vibrant  and  vigorous,  seemed  broken  or 
rusted.  He  did  not  suffer,  he  did  not  desire.  Death 
had  taken  away  his  fever  for  work,  his  artistic  restless- 
ness, leaving  him  in  the  limbo  of  comfort  and  tranquillity. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  he  succeeded  in  throwing  off 
his  comfortable  torpor,  he  went  to  see  his  daughter,  if 
she  was  in  Madrid,  for  she  very  frequently  went  with 
her  husband  on  his  automobile  trips.  Then  he  ended 
the  afternoon  at  the  Albercas',  where  he  often  stayed  till 
midnight. 

He  dined  there  almost  every  day.  The  count,  accus- 
tomed to  his  society,  seemed  as  eager  to  see  him  as  his 
wife.  He  spoke  enthusiastically  of  the  portrait  which 
Renovales  was  painting  of  him  to  go  with  Concha's.  He 
would  make  more  progress  when  he  secured  some  in- 
signia of  foreign  orders  that  were  still  lacking  in  his 
catalogue  of  honors.  And  the  artist  felt  a  twinge  of  re- 
morse as  he  listened  to  the  good  gentleman's  simplicity, 
while  his  wife,  with  mad  recklessness,  caressed  him  with 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  233 

her  eyes,  leaned  toward  him  as  if  she  were  on  the  point 
of  falling  into  his  arms. 

Then,  as  soon  as  the  husband  went  away,  she  would 
throw  her  arms  about  him,  hungry  for  him,  defying  the 
curiosity  of  the  servants.  Love  that  was  threatened  with 
dangers  seemed  sweeter  to  her.  And  the  artist  took 
pride  in  letting  her  worship  him.  He,  who  at  first  was 
the  one  who  implored  and  pursued,  assumed  now  an  air 
of  passive  superiority,  accepting  Concha's  homage. 

Lacking  enthusiasm  for  work,  in  order  to  keep  up  his 
reputation  Renovales  took  refuge  in  the  official  honors 
which  are  granted  to  respected  masters.  He  put  off  till 
the  next  day  the  new  work,  the  great  work  that  was  to 
call  forth  new  cries  of  admiration  over  his  name.  He 
would  paint  his  famous  picture  of  Phryne  on  a  beach, 
when  summer  came,  and  he  could  retire  to  the  solitary 
shore,  taking  with  him  the  perfect  beauty  to  serve  as  his 
model.  Perhaps  he  could  persuade  the  countess.  Who 
knows !  She  smiled  with  satisfaction  every  time  she 
heard  from  his  lips  the  praise  of  her  beauty.  But  mean- 
while the  master  demanded  that  people  should  remember 
his  name  for  his  earlier  works,  that  they  should  ad- 
mire him  for  what  he  had  already  produced. 

He  was  irritated  at  the  papers,  which  extolled  the 
younger  generation,  remembered  him  only  to  mention 
him  in  passing,  like  a  consecrated  glory,  like  a  man  who 
was  dead  and  had  his  pictures  in  the  Museo  del  Prado. 
He  was  gnawed  with  dumb  anger,  like  an  actor  who  is 
tortured  with  envy,  seeing  the  stage  occupied  by  others. 

He  wanted  to  work;  he  was  going  to  work  immedi- 
ately. But  as  time  passed,  he  felt  an  increasing  lazi- 
ness, which  incapacitated  him  for  work,  a  numbness  in 
his  hands,  which  he  concealed  even  from  his  most  inti- 
mate friends,  ashamed  when  he  recalled  his  lightness  of 
touch  in  the  old  days. 


234  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"This  will  not  last,"  he  said  to  himself  with  the  confi- 
dence of  a  man  who  does  not  doubt  his  ability. 

In  one  of  his  fanciful  moods,  he  compared  himself 
with  a  dog,  restless,  fierce  and  aggressive  when  he  is 
tormented  with  hunger,  but  gentle  and  peaceable  when 
he  is  surrounded  with  comforts.  He  needed  his  pe- 
riods of  greed  and  restlessness,  when  he  desired 
everything,  when  he  could  not  find  peace  for  his  work, 
and  in  the  midst  of  his  marital  troubles  attacked  the 
canvas  as  if  it  were  an  enemy,  hurling  colors  on  it 
furiously,  in  slaps  of  light.  Even  after  he  was  rich  and 
famous,  he  had  had  something  to  long  for.  "If  I  only 
were  free!  If  I  were  master  of  my  time!  If  I  lived 
alone,  without  a  family,  without  cares;  as  a  true  artist 
should  live !"  And  now  his  wishes  were  fulfilled,  he  had 
nothing  to  hope  for,  but  he  was  a  victim  of  laziness  that 
amounted  to  exhaustion,  absolutely  without  desire,  as  if 
only  wrath  and  restlessness  were  for  him  the  internal 
goad  of  inspiration. 

The  longing  for  fame  tormented  him;  as  the  days 
went  by  and  his  name  was  not  mentioned,  he  believed 
that  he  had  come  to  an  obscure  death.  He  fancied  that 
the  youths  turned  their  backs  on  him,  to  look  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  storing  him  away  among  the  respected 
dead,  admiring  other  masters.  His  artistic  pride  made 
him  seek  opportunities  for  notoriety,  with  the  guileless- 
ness  of  a  tyro.  He,  who  scoffed  so  at  the  official  hon- 
ors and  the  "sheepfold"  of  the  academies,  suddenly  re- 
membered that  several  years  before,  after  one  of  his  suc- 
cesses, they  had  elected  him  a  member  of  the  Academy 
of  Fine  Arts. 

Cotoner  was  astonished  to  see  the  importance  he  be- 
gan to  attach  to  this  unsolicited  distinction,  at  which  he 
had  always  laughed. 

"That  was  a  boy's  joking,"  said  the  master  gravely. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  235 

''Life  cannot  always  be  taken  as  a  laughing  matter.  We 
must  be  serious,  Pepe;  we  are  getting  on  in  years,  and 
we  must  not  always  make  fun  of  things  that  are  essen- 
tially respectable." 

Besides,  he  charged  himself  with  rudeness.  Those 
worthy  personages,  whom  he  had  often  compared  with 
all  kinds  of  animals,  no  doubt  thought  it  strange  that  the 
years  went  by  without  his  caring  to  occupy  his  seat.  He 
must  go  to  the  academic  reception.  And  Cotoner,  at  his 
bidding,  attended  to  all  the  details,  from  taking  the  news 
to  those  worthies,  in  order  that  they  might  set  the  date 
for  the  function,  to  arranging  the  speech  of  the  new 
Academician.  For  Renovales  learned  with  some  mis- 
giving that  he  must  read  a  speech.  He,  accustomed  to 
handling  the  brush  and  poorly  trained  in  his  childhood, 
took  up  the  pen  with  timidity,  and  even  in  his  letters  to 
the  Alberca  woman  preferred  to  represent  his  passion- 
ate phrases  with  amusing  pictures,  to  embodying  them  in 
words. 

The  old  Bohemian  got  him  out  of  this  difficulty.  He 
knew  his  Madrid  well.  The  secrets  of  the  world  which 
are  detailed  in  the  newspapers  had  no  mysteries  for  him. 
Renovales  should  have  as  magnificent  a  speech  as  any 
one. 

And  one  afternoon  he  brought  to  the  studio  a  certain 
Isidro  Maltrana,*  a  diminutive,  ugly  young  fellow  with 
a  huge  head,  and  an  air  of  self-satisfaction  and  boldness 
that  disgusted  Renovales  from  the  very  first.  He  was 
well  dressed  but  the  lapels  of  his  coat  were  dirty  with 
ashes,  and  its  collar  was  strewn  with  dandruff.  The 
painter  observed  that  he  smelt  of  wine.  At  first  he  pom- 
pously styled  him  master,  but  after  a  few  words  he 
called  him  by  name  with  disconcerting  familiarity.  He 

*  The  life  of  this  character  is  the  theme  of  La  Horda,  by  the 
same  author. 


2S6  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

moved  about  the  studio  as  if  it  were  his  own,  as  if  he 
had  spent  his  whole  life  in  it,  indifferent  to  its  beautiful 
decorations. 

It  would  not  be  any  trouble  for  him  to  undertake  the 
preparation  of  a  speech.  That  was  his  specialty.  Aca- 
demic receptions  and  works  for  members  of  Congress 
were  his  best  field.  He  understood  that  the  master 
needed  him — a  painter! 

And  Renovales,  who  was  beginning  to  find  this 
Maltrana  fellow  attractive  in  spite  of  his  insolence,  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  height  in  the  majesty  of  his  fame. 
If  it  was  a  question  of  doing  a  picture  for  admission,  he 
was  the  man.  But  a  speech ! 

"Agreed:  you  shall  have  the  speech,"  said  Maltrana. 
"It's  an  easy  matter,  I  know  the  recipe.  We  shall  speak 
of  the  holy  traditions  of  the  past,  we  shall  despise  cer- 
tain daring  innovations  on  the  part  of  the  inexperienced 
youth,  which  were  perfectly  proper  twenty  years  ago, 
when  you  were  beginning,  but  which  now  are  out  of 
place.  Do  you  care  for  a  thrust  at  modernism?" 

Renovales  smiled,  enchanted  at  the  frankness  with 
which  this  young  fellow  spoke  of  his  task,  and  he  moved 
one  hand  to  suggest  a  balance.  "Man  alive !  Like  this. 
A  just  mean  is  what  we  want." 

"Of  course,  Renovales;  flatter  the  old  men  and  not 
quarrel  with  the  young.  You  are  a  real  master.  You  will 
be  pleased  with  my  work." 

With  the  calmness  of  a  shopkeeper,  before  the  artist 
had  a  chance  to  speak  of  the  charge,  he  broached  the 
matter.  It  would  be  two  thousand  reales;  he  had  already 
told  Cotoner.  The  low  tariff ;  the  one  he  set  for  people 
he  liked. 

"A  man  must  live,  Renovales.    I  have  a  son." 

And  his:  voice  grew  serious  as  he  said  this;  his  face, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  237 

<igly  and  cynical,  became  noble  for  a  moment,  reflecting 
the  cares  of  paternal  love. 

"A  son,  dear  master,  for  whom  I  do  anything  that 
turns  up.  If  it  is  necessary  I  will  steal.  He  is  the  only 
thing  I  have  in  the  world.  His  mother  died  in  misery 
in  the  hospital.  I  dreamt  of  being  something,  but  you 
can't  think  of  nonsense  when  you  have  a  baby.  Be- 
tween the  hope  of  being  famous  and  the  certainty  of 
eating — eating  is  the  first." 

But  his  tenderness  was  not  of  long  duration.  He  re- 
covered the  cold,  mercenary  expression  of  a  man  who 
goes  through  life  in  an  armor  of  cynicism,  disillusioned 
by  misfortune,  setting  a  price  on  all  his  acts.  They 
agreed  on  the  sum ;  he  should  receive  it  when  he  handed 
over  the  speech. 

"And  if  you  print  it,  as  I  hope,"  he  said  as  he  went 
away,  "I  will  read  the  proof  without  any  extra  charge. 
Of  course  that  is  a  special  favor  to  you,  because  I  am 
one  of  your  admirers." 

Renovales  spent  several  weeks  in  the  preparations  for 
his  reception,  as  if  it  were  the  most  important  event  in 
his  life.  The  countess  also  took  a  great  interest  in  the 
matter.  She  would  see  to  it  that  it  was  a  distinguished 
function,  something  like  the  receptions  of  the  French 
Academy,  described  in  the  papers  or  in  novels.  All  of 
her  friends  would  be  present.  The  great  painter  would 
read  his  speech,  the  cynosure  of  a  hundred  interested 
eyes,  amid  the  fluttering  of  fans  and  the  buzz  of  con- 
versation. An  immense  success  which  would  enrage 
many  artists  who  were  eager  to  get  a  foothold  in  high 
society. 

A  few  days  before  the  function,  Cotoner  handed  him 
a  bundle  of  papers.  It  was  a  copy  of  the  speech, — in  a 
fair  hand ;  it  was  already  paid  for.  And  Renovales,  with 
the  instinct  of  an  actor  anxious  to  make  a  good  show, 


238  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

spent  an  afternoon,  striding  from  studio  to  studio,  with 
the  manuscript  in  one  hand  and  making  energetic  ges- 
tures with  the  other,  while  he  read  the  paragraphs  aloud. 
That  impudent  Maltrana  was  gifted!  It  was  a  work 
that  filled  the  simple  artist  with  enthusiasm,  in  his  igno- 
rance of  everything  except  printing,  a  series  of  glorious 
trumpet  blasts,  in  which  were  scattered  names,  many 
names;  appreciations  in  tremulous  rhetoric,  historical 
summaries,  so  well  rounded,  so  complete  that  it  seemed 
as  though  mankind  had  been  living  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world  with  no  other  thought  than  Renovales' 
speech,  and  judging  its  acts  in  order  that  he  might  give 
them  a  definite  interpretation. 

The  artist  felt  a  thrill  of  elevation  as  he  repeated  in 
eloquent  succession  Greek  names,  many  of  which  were 
mere  sounds  to  him,  for  he  was  not  certain  whether  they 
were  great  sculptors  or  tragic  poets.  Again,  he  expe- 
rienced a  sensation  of  self-satisfaction  when  he  encoun- 
tered the  names  of  Dante  and  Shakespeare.  He  knew 
that  they  had  not  painted,  but  they  ought  to  appear  in 
every  speech  which  was  worthy  of  respect.  And  when 
he  came  to  the  paragraphs  on  modern  art,  he  seemed 
to  touch  terra  firma,  and  smiled  with  a  superior  air. 
Maltrana  did  not  know  much  about  that  subject;  super- 
ficial appreciation  of  a  layman ;  but  he  wrote  well,  very 
well;  he  could  not  have  done  better  himself.  And  he 
studied  his  speech,  till  he  could  repeat  whole  paragraphs 
by  heart,  paying  particular  attention  to  the  pronuncia- 
tion of  the  difficult  names,  taking  lessons  from  his  most 
cultured  friends. 

"It  is  for  appearance's  sake,"  he  said  naively.  "It  is 
because  I  don't  want  people  to  poke  fun  at  me,  even  if 
I  am  only  a  painter." 

The  day  of  the  reception  he  had  luncheon  long  before 
noon.  He  scarcely  touched  the  food;  this  ceremony, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  239 

which  he  had  never  seen,  made  him  rather  worried.  To 
his  anxiety  was  added  the  irritation  he  always  felt  when 
he  had  to  attend  to  the  care  of  his  person. 

His  long  years  of  married  life  had  accustomed  him  to 
neglect  all  the  trivial,  everyday  needs  of  life.  If  he  had 
to  appear  in  different  clothes  than  usual,  the  hands  of 
his  wife  and  daughter  deftly  arranged  them  for  him. 
Even  at  the  times  of  greatest  ill-feeling,  when  he  and 
Josephina  hardly  spoke  to  each  other,  he  noticed  around 
him  the  scrupulous  order  of  that  excellent  housekeeper 
who  removed  all  obstacles  from  his  way,  relieving  him 
of  the  ordinary  cares  of  life. 

Cotoner  was  away ;  the  servant  had  gone  to  the  count- 
ess's to  take  her  some  invitations  which  she  had  asked 
for,  at  the  last  minute,  for  some  friends.  Renovales  de- 
cided to  dress  alone.  His  son-in-law  and  daughter  were 
going  to  come  for  him  at  two.  Lopez  de  Sosa  had  in- 
sisted on  taking  him  to  the  Academy  in  his  car,  seek- 
ing, no  doubt,  by  this  a  little  ray  of  the  splendor  of  of- 
ficial glory  that  was  to  be  showered  on  his  father-in- 
law. 

Renovales  dressed  himself,  after  struggling  with  the 
many  difficulties  that  arose  from  his  lack  of  habit.  He 
was  as  awkward  as  a  child  without  his  mother's  help. 
When  at  last  he  looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror,  with 
his  dress  coat  on  and  his  cravat  neatly  tied,  he  heaved  a 
sigh  of  relief.  At  last!  Now  the  insignia — the  ribbon. 
Where  could  he  find  those  honorary  trinkets?  Since 
Milita's  wedding  he  had  not  had  them  on,  the  poor  de- 
parted had  put  them  away.  Where  could  he  find  them? 
And  hastily,  fearing  the  time  would  go  by  and  his 
children  would  surprise  him  before  he  finished  the 
decoration  of  his  person,  out  of  breath,  swearing  with 
impatience,  wandering  around  in  hopeless  confusion, 
unable  to  remember  anything  definitely,  he  entered 


240  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  room  his  wife  had  used  as  a  wardrobe.  Perhaps  she 
had  put  away  his  insignia  there.  He  opened  the  doors 
of  the  great  clothes-closets  with  a  nervous  pull.  Clothes ! 
Nothing  but  clothes. 

The  odor  of  balsam,  which  made  him  think  of  the  si- 
lent calm  of  the  woods,  was  mingled  with  a  subtle,  mys- 
terious perfume,  a  perfume  of  years  gone  by,  of  dead 
beauties,  of  forgotten  memories,  like  the  fragrance  of 
dried  flowers.  This  odor  came  from  the  mass  of  clothes 
that  hung  there,  white,  black,  pink  and  blue  dresses, 
with  their  colors  dull  and  indistinct,  the  lace  crumpled 
and  yellow,  retaining  in  their  folds  something  of  the  liv- 
ing fragrance  of  the  form  they  once  had  covered.  The 
whole  past  of  the  dead  woman  was  there.  With  super- 
stitious care,  she  had  stored  away  the  gowns  of  the  dif- 
ferent periods  of  her  life,  as  if  she  had  been  afraid  to 
get  rid  of  them,  to  tear  out  a  part  of  her  life. 

As  the  painter  looked  at  some  of  these  gowns,  he  felt 
the  same  emotion  as  if  they  were  old  friends  who  had 
suddenly  appeared  like  an  unexpected  surprise.  A  pink 
skirt  recalled  the  happy  days  in  Rome ;  a  blue  suit  brought 
to  his  memory  the  Piazza  di  san  Marco,  and  he  thought 
he  heard  the  fluttering  of  the  doves  and  the  distant  rum- 
ble of  the  noisy  Ride  of  the  Valkyries.  The  dark,  cheap 
suits  that  belonged  to  the  cruel  days  of  struggle  hung  at 
the  back  of  the  closet,  like  the  garb  of  suffering  and  sac- 
rifice. A  straw  hat,  bright  as  a  summer  wood,  covered 
with  red  flowers  and  with  cherries,  seemed  to  smile  to 
him  from  a  shelf.  Oh,  he  knew  that  too !  Many  a  time 
its  sharp  edge  of  straw  had  stuck  into  his  forehead,  when 
at  sunset  on  the  roads  of  the  Roman  Compagna  he  used 
to  bend  down,  with  his  arm  around  his  little  wife's  waist, 
to  kiss  her  lips  that  trembled  softly,  while  from  the  dis- 
tance in  the  blue  mist  came  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  of  the 
flocks  and  the  mournful  songs  of  the  drivers. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  241 

That  youthful  perfume,  grown  old  in  its  confinement, 
which  poured  from  the  closets  in  waves,  with  the  rush 
of  an  old  wine  that  escapes  from  the  dusty  bottle  in 
spurts,  spoke  to  him  of  the  past,  calling  up  the  joys  that 
were  dead.  His  senses  trembled,  a  subtle  intoxication 
crept  over  him.  He  fancied  he  had  fallen  into  a  sea  of 
perfume  that  buffeted  him  with  its  waves,  playing  with 
him  as  if  he  were  an  inert  body.  It  was  the  scent  of 
youth  that  came  back  to  him;  the  incense  of  the  happy 
days,  fainter,  more  subtle  with  the  regret  of  dead  years. 
It  was  the  perfume  of  her  beauty  which  one  night  in 
Rome  had  made  him  sigh  admiringly. 

"I  worship  you,  Josephina.  You  are  as  fair  as  Goya's 
little  Maja.  You  are  the  Maja  Desnuda." 

Holding  his  breath  like  a  swimmer,  he  delved  into  the 
depths  of  the  closets,  reaching  out  his  hands  greedily, 
yet  eager  to  get  out  of  there,  to  return,  as  .soon  as  he 
could,  to  the  surface,  to  the  pure  air.  He  came  upon 
card-board  boxes,  bundles  of  belts  and  old  lace,  without 
rinding  what  he  was  seeking.  And  every  time  that  his 
trembling  arms  shook  the  old  clothes,  the  swinging  of 
the  skirts  seemed  to  throw  in  his  face  a  wave  of  that 
dead,  indefinable  perfume  which  he  breathed  more  with 
his  fancy  than  with  his  senses. 

He  wanted  to  get  out  as  soon  as  possible.  The  insig- 
nia were  not  in  the  wardrobe.  Perhaps  he  would  find 
them  in  the  chamber.  And  for  the  first  time  since  the 
death  of  his  wife,  he  ventured  to  turn  the  door  key.  The 
perfume  of  the  past  seemed  to  go  with  him ;  it  had  pen- 
etrated through  all  the  pores  of  his  body.  He  fancied 
he  felt  the  pressure  of  a  pair  of  distant,  enormous  arms, 
that  came  from  the  infinite.  He  was  no  longer  afraid 
to  enter  the  chamber. 

He  groped  his  way,  looking  for  one  of  the  windows. 
When  the  shutters  creaked  and  the  sunlight  rushed  in, 


242  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  painter's  eyes,  after  a  moment  of  blinking,  saw,  like 
a  sweet,  faint  smile,  the  glow  of  the  Venetian  furniture. 

What  a  beautiful  artistic  chamber!  After  a  year  of 
absence,  the  painter  admired  the  great  clothes-press  with 
its  three  mirrors,  deep  and  blue  as  only  the  mirror-mak- 
ers of  Murano  could  make  them  and  the  ebony  of  the 
furniture  inlaid  with  tiny  bits  of  pearl  and  bright  jewels, 
a  specimen  of  the  artistic  genius  of  ancient  Venice  in 
contact  with  Oriental  peoples.  This  furniture  had  been 
for  Renovales  one  of  the  great  undertakings  of  his  youth ; 
the  whim  of  a  lover,  eager  to  bestow  princely  honors  on 
his  companion  after  years  of  strict  economy. 

They  had  always  had  their  luxurious  bedroom  wher- 
ever they  were,  even  at  the  time  of  their  poverty.  In 
those  hard  days  when  he  painted  in  the  attic  and  Jo- 
sephina  did  the  cooking,  they  had  no  chairs,  they  ate  from 
the  same  plate ;  Milita  played  with  rag-dolls ;  but  in  their 
miserable,  whitewashed  alcove  were  piled  up  with  sacred 
respect  all  that  furniture  of  the  fair-haired  wife  of  some 
Doge,  like  a  hope  for  the  future,  a  promise  of  better 
times.  She,  poor  woman,  with  her  simple  faith,  cleaned 
it,  worshiped  it,  waiting  for  the  hour  of  magic  transfor- 
mation to  move  them  to  a  palace. 

The  painter  glanced  about  the  chamber  calmly.  He 
found  nothing  unusual  there,  nothing  that  moved  him. 
Cotoner  had  prudently  hidden  the  chair  in  which  Jo- 
sephina  died. 

The  princely  bed,  with  its  monumental  head  and  foot 
of  carved  ebony  and  brilliant  mosaic,  looked  vulgar  with 
the  mattresses  piled  in  a  heap.  Renovales  laughed  at 
the  terror  which  had  so  often  made  him  stop  in  front  of 
the  locked  door.  Death  had  left  no  trace.  Nothing 
there  reminded  him  of  Josephina.  In  the  atmosphere 
floated  that  smell  of  closeness,  that  odor  of  dust  and 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  243 

dampness  which  one  finds  in  all  rooms  that  have  long 
been  closed. 

The  time  was  passing,  the  insignia  must  be  found,  and 
Renovales,  already  accustomed  to  the  room,  opened  the 
clothespress,  expecting  to  find  them  in  it. 

There,  too,  the  wood  seemed  to  scatter,  as  he  opened 
the  door,  a  perfume  like  that  of  the  other  room.  It 
was  fainter,  more  vague,  more  distant. 

Renovales  thought  it  was  an  illusion  of  his  senses. 
But  no ;  from  the  depths  of  the  clothes-press  came  an  in- 
visible vapor  wrapping  him  in  its  caressing  breath.  There 
were  no  clothes  there.  His  eyes  recognized  immediately 
in  the  bottom  of  a  compartment  the  boxes  he  was  look- 
ing for ;  but  he  did  not  reach  out  his  hands  for  them ;  he 
stood  motionless,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  a  thou- 
sand trivial  objects  that  reminded  him  of  Josephina. 

She  was  there,  too ;  she  came  forth  to  meet  him,  more 
personal,  more  real  than  from  among  the  heap  of  old 
clothes.  Her  gloves  seemed  to  preserve  the  warmth  and 
the  outline  of  those  hands  which  once  had  run  caressingly 
through  the  artist's  hair,  her  collars  reminded  him  of  her 
warm  ivory  neck  where  he  used  to  place  his  kisses. 

His  hands  turned  over  everything  with  painful  curi- 
osity. An  old  fan,  carefully  put  away,  seemed  to  move 
him  in  spite  of  its  sorry  appearance.  Among  its  broken 
folds  he  could  see  a  trace  of  old  colors — a  head  he  had 
painted  when  his  wife  was  only  a  friend — a  gift  for 
Senorita  de  Torrealta  who  wanted  to  have  something 
done  by  the  young  artist.  At  the  bottom  of  a  case  shone 
two  huge  pearls,  surrounded  by  diamonds;  a  present 
from  Milan,  the  first  jewel  of  real  worth  which  he  had 
bought  for  his  wife,  as  they  were  walking  through  the 
Piazza  del  Duomo ;  a  whole  remittance  from  his  manager 
in  Rome  invested  in  this  costly  trinket  which  made  the 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

little  woman  flush  with  pleasure  while  her  eyes  rested 
on  him  with  intense  gratitude. 

His  eager  fingers,  as  they  turned  over  boxes,  belts, 
handkerchiefs  and  gloves,  came  upon  souvenirs  with 
which  her  person  was  forever  connected.  That  poor 
woman  had  lived  for  him,  only  for  him,  as  if  her  own 
existence  were  nothing,  as  if  it  had  no  meaning  unless 
it  were  joined  with  his.  He  found  carefully  put  away 
among  belts  and  band-boxes — photographs  of  the  places 
where  she  had  spent  her  youth;  the  buildings  of  Rome; 
the  mountains  of  the  old  Papal  States,  the  canals  of 
Venice — relics  of  the  past  which  no  doubt  were  of  great 
value  to  her  because  they  called  up  the  image  of  her 
husband.  And  among  these  papers  he  saw  dry,  crushed 
flowers,  proud  roses,  or  modest  wild  flowers,  withered 
leaves,  nameless  souvenirs  whose  importance  Renovales 
realized,  suspecting  that  they  recalled  some  happy  mo- 
ment completely  forgotten  by  him. 

The  artist's  portraits,  at  different  ages,  rose  from  all 
the  corners,  entangled  among  belts  or  buried  under  the 
piles  of  handkerchiefs.  Then  several  bundles  of  let- 
ters appeared,  the  ink  reddened  with  time,  written  in  a 
hand  that  made  the  artist  uneasy.  He  recognized  it;  it 
was  dimly  associated  in  his  memory  with  some  person 
whose  name  had  escaped  him.  Fool!  It  was  his  own 
handwriting,  the  laborious  heavy  hand  of  his  youth 
which  was  dexterous  only  with  the  brush.  There  in  those 
yellow  folds  was  the  whole  story  of  his  life,  his  intellec- 
tual efforts  to  say  "pretty  things"  like  men  who  write. 
Not  one  was  missing;  the  letters  of  their  early  engage- 
ment when,  after  they  had  seen  and  talked  to  each  other, 
they  still  felt  that  they  must  put  on  paper  what  their  lips 
did  not  venture  to  say;  others  with  Italian  stamps,  ex- 
uberant with  extravagant  expressions  of  love,  short  notes 
he  sent  her  when  he  was  going  to  spend  a  few  days  with 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  245 

some  other  artists  at  Naples,  or  to  visit  some  dead  city 
in  the  Marcha;  then  the  letters  from  Paris  to  the  old 
Venetian  palace,  inquiring  anxiously  for  the  little  girl, 
asking  about  the  nursing,  trembling  with  fear  at  the  pos- 
sibility of  the  inevitable  diseases  of  childhood. 

Not  one  was  lacking;  all  were  there,  put  away  like 
fetishes,  perfumed  with  love,  tied  up  with  ribbons  like 
the  balsam  and  swathings  of  a  mummified  life.  Her 
letters  had  had  a  different  fate,  her  written  love  had  been 
scattered,  lost  in  the  void.  They  had  been  left  forgotten 
in  old  suits,  burned  in  the  fireplaces,  or  had  fallen  into 
strange  hands,  where  they  provoked  laughter  at  their 
tender  simplicity.  The  only  letters  he  kept  were  a  few 
of  the  other  woman's  and,  as  he  thought  of  this,  he  was 
seized  with  remorse,  with  infinite  shame  at  his  evil  doings. 

He  read  the  first  lines  of  some  of  them,  with  a  strange 
feeling,  as  if  they  were  written  by  another  man,  wonder- 
ing at  their  passionate  tone.  And  it  was  he  who  had 
written  that!  How  he  loved  Josephina  then!  It  did 
not  seem  possible  that  this  affection  could  have  ended 
so  coldly.  He  was  surprised  at  the  indifference  of  the 
last  years;  he  no  longer  remembered  the  troubles  of 
their  life  together;  he  saw  his  wife  now  as  she  was  in 
her  youth,  with  her  calm  face,  her  quiet  smile  and  ad- 
miration in  her  eyes. 

He  continued  to  read,  passing  eagerly  from  letter  to 
letter.  He  wondered  at  his  own  youth,  virtuous  in  spite 
of  his  passionate  nature,  at  the  chastity  of  his  devotion 
to  his  wife,  the  only,  the  unquestionable  one.  He  ex- 
perienced the  joy,  tinged  with  melancholy,  which  a  de- 
crepit old  man  feels  at  the  contemplation  of  his  youthful 
portrait.  And  he  had  been  like  that !  From  the  bottom 
of  his  soul,  a  stern  voice  seemed  to  rise  in  a  reproachful 
tone,  "Yes,  like  that,  when  you  were  good,  when  you 
were  honorable." 


246  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT' 

He  became  so  absorbed  in  his  reading  that  he  did  not 
notice  the  lapse  of  time.  Suddenly  he  heard  steps  in  the 
distant  hall- way,  the  rustle  of  skirts,  his  daughter's 
voice.  Outside  the  house  a  horn  was  tooting ;  his  haughty 
son-in-law  telling  him  to  hurry;  trembling  with  fear  at 
the  prospect  of  being  discovered,  he  took  the  insignia  and 
the  ribbons  out  of  their  cases  and  hastily  closed  the 
door  of  the  clothes-press. 

The  reception  of  the  Academy  was  almost  a  failure 
for  Renovales.  The  countess  found  him  very  interesting, 
with  his  face  pale  with  excitement,  his  breast  starred 
with  jewels  and  his  shirt  front  cut  with  several  bright 
lines  of  colors.  But  as  soon  as  he  stood  up  amid  general 
curiosity,  with  his  manuscript  in  his  hand,  and  began  to 
read  the  first  paragraphs,  a  murmur  arose  which  kept  in- 
creasing and  finally  drowned  out  his  voice.  He  read 
thickly,  with  the  haste  of  a  schoolboy  who  wants  to  have 
it  over,  without  noticing  what  he  was  saying,  in  a  mo- 
notonous sing-song.  The  sonorous  rehearsals  in  the 
studio,  the  careful  preparation  of  dramatic  gestures  was 
forgotten.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  somewhere  else,  far 
away  from  that  ceremony;  his  eyes  saw  nothing  but  the 
letters.  The  fashionable  assemblage  went  out,  glad 
they  had  gathered  and  seen  each  other  again.  Many  lips 
laughed  at  the  speech  behind  their  gauze  "fans,  delighted 
to  be  able  to  scratch  indirectly  his  friend  the  Alberca 
woman. 

"Awful,  my  dear !    Insufferably  boring !" 


II 


As  soon  as  he  awoke  the  next  day,  Renovales  felt 
that  he  must  have  open  air,  light,  space,  and  he  went 
out  of  the  house,  not  stopping  in  his  walk,  up  the  Castel- 
lana,  until  he  reached  the  clearing  near  the  Exhibition 
Hall. 

The  night  before  he  had  dined  at  the  Albercas' — almost 
a  formal  banquet  in  honor  of  his  entrance  into  the  Acad- 
emy, at  which  many  of  the  distinguished  gentlemen 
who  formed  the  countess's  coterie  were  present.  She 
seemed  radiant  with  joy,  as  if  she  were  celebrating  a 
triumph  of  her  own.  The  count  treated  the  famous 
master  with  greater  respect  than  ever;  he  had  just  ad- 
vanced another  step  in  glory.  His  respect  for  all  hon- 
orary distinctions  made  him  admire  that  Academic  medal, 
the  only  distinction  he  could  not  add  to  his  load  of  in- 
signia. 

Renovales  spent  a  bad  night.  The  countess's  cham- 
pagne did  not  agree  with  him.  He  had  gone  home  with 
a  sort  of  fear,  as  if  something  unusual  was  awaiting  him 
which  his  uneasiness  could  not  explain.  He  took  off 
the  dress  clothes  which  had  been  torturing  him  for  sev- 
eral hours  and  went  to  bed,  surprised  at  the  vague  fear 
that  followed  him  even  to  the  threshhold  of  his  room. 
He  saw  nothing  unusual  around  him,  his  room  presented 
the  same  appearance  it  always  did.  He  feel  asleep,  over- 
come by  weariness,  by  the  digestive  torpor  of  that  ex- 
traordinary banquet,  and  he  did  not  awake  at  all  during 
the  night;  but  his  sleep  was  cruel,  tossed  with  dreams 
that  perhaps  made  him  groan. 

247 


248  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT? 

On  awakening,  late  in  the  morning,  at  the  steps  of  his 
servant  in  the  dressing  room,  he  realized  by  the  tumbled 
condition  of  the  bed-clothes,  by  the  cold  sweat  on  his 
forehead  and  the  weariness  of  his  body  what  a  restless 
night  he  had  passed  amid  nervous  starts. 

His  brain,  still  heavy  with  sleep,  could  not  unravel  the 
memories  of  the  night.  He  knew  only  that  he  had  had 
unpleasant  dreams ;  perhaps  he  had  wept.  The  one  thing 
he  could  recall  was  a  pale  face,  rising  from  among  the 
black  veils  of  unconsciousness,  around  which  all  his 
dreams  were  centered.  It  was  not  Josephina;  the  face 
had  the  expression  of  a  person  of  another  world. 

But  as  his  mental  numbness  gradually  disappeared, 
while  he  was  washing  and  dressing,  and  while  the  servant 
was  helping  him  on  with  his  overcoat,  he  thought,  sum- 
moning his  memories  with  an  effort,  that  it  might  be  she. 
Yes,  it  was  she.  Now  he  remembered  that  in  his  dream 
he  had  been  conscious  of  that  perfume  which  had  fol- 
lowed him  since  the  day  before,  which  accompanied  him 
to  the  Academy,  disturbing  his  reading,  and  which  had 
gone  with  him  to  the  banquet,  running  between  his  eyes 
and  Concha's  like  a  mist,  through  which  he  looked  at 
her,  without  seeing  her. 

The  coolness  of  the  morning  cleared  his  mind.  The 
wide  prospect  from  the  heights  of  the  Exhibition  Hall 
seemed  to  blot  out  instantly  the  memories  of  the  night. 

A  wind  from  the  mountains  was  blowing  on  the  plateau 
near  the  Hippodrome.  As  he  walked  against  the  wind, 
he  felt  a  buzz  in  his  ears,  like  the  distant  roar  of  the  sea. 
In  the  background,  beyond  the  slopes  with  their  little 
red  houses  and  wintry  poplars,  bare  as  broomsticks,  the 
mountains  of  Guadarrama  stood  out,  luminously  clear 
against  the  blue  sky,  with  their  snowy  crests  and  their 
huge  peaks  which  seemed  made  of  salt.  In  the  opposite 
direction,  sunk  in  a  deep  cut,  appeared  the  covering  of 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Madrid;  the  black  roofs,  the  pointed  towers — all  indis- 
tinct in  a  haze  that  gave  the  buildings  in  the  background 
the  vague  blue  of  the  mountains. 

The  plateau,  covered  with  wretched,  thin  grass,  its 
furrows  stiffly  frozen,  flashed  here  and  there  in  the  sun- 
light. The  bits  of  tile  on  the  ground,  broken  pieces  of 
china  and  tin  cans  reflected  the  light  as  if  they  were 
precious  metals. 

Renovales  looked  for  a  long  while  at  the  back  of  the 
Exhibition  Palace;  the  yellow  walls  trimmed  with  red 
brick  which  hardly  rose  above  the  edge  of  the  clearing; 
the  flat  zinc  roofs,  shining  like  dead  seas;  the  central 
cupola,  huge,  swollen,  cutting  the  sky  with  its  black 
curves,  like  a  balloon  on  the  point  of  rising.  From  one 
wing  of  the  Palace  came  the  sound  of  bugles,  prolonging 
£heir  warlike  notes  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  hoof- 
loeats  amid  clouds  of  dust.  Beside  one  door  swords  were 
flashing  and  the  sun  was  reflected  on  patent-leather  hats. 

The  painter  smiled.  That  palace  had  been  erected  for 
them,  and  now  the  rural  police  occupied  it.  Once  every 
two  years  Art  entered  it,  claiming  the  place  from  the 
horses  of  the  guardians  of  peace.  Statues  were  set  up 
jin  rooms  that  smelt  of  oats  and  stout  shoes.  But  this 
.anomaly  did  not  last  long;  the  intruder  was  driven  out, 
as  soon  as  the  place  was  beginning  to  have  a  semblance 
of 'European  culture,  and  there  remained  in  the  Exhibi- 
tion Palace  the  true,  the  national,  the  privileged  police, 
the  sorry  jades  of  holy  authority  which  galloped  down  to 
the  streets  of  Madrid  when  its  slothful  peace  was  at 
rare  intervals  disturbed. 

As  the  master  looked  at  the  black  cupola,  he  remem- 
bered the  days  of  exhibitions;  he  saw  the  long-haired, 
anxious  youths,  now  gentle  and  flattering,  now  angry 
and  iconoclastic,  coming  from  all  the  cities  of  Spain  with 
their  pictures  under  their  arms  and  mighty  ambitions  in 


250  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT' 

their  minds.  He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  the  unpleasant- 
ness and  disgust  he  had  suffered  under  that  roof,  when 
the  turbulent  throng  of  artists  crowded  around  him,  an- 
noyed him,  admiring  him  more  because  of  his  position 
as  an  influential  judge  than  because  of  his  works.  It 
was  he  who  awarded  the  prizes  in  the  opinion  of  those 
young  fellows  who  followed  him  with  looks  of  fear  and 
hope.  On  the  afternoon  when  the  prizes  were  awarded, 
groups  rushed  out  to  meet  him  in  the  portico  at  the  news 
of  his  arrival ;  they  greeted  him  with  extravagant  demon- 
strations of  respect.  Some  walked  in  front  of  him,  talk- 
ing loudly.  "Who  ?  Renovales  ?  The  greatest  painter  in 
the  world.  Next  to  Velasquez."  And  at  the  end  of  the 
afternoon,  when  the  two  sheets  of  paper  were  placed  on 
the  columns  of  the  rotunda,  with  the  lists  of  winners,  the 
master  prudently  slipped  out  to  avoid  the  final  explosion. 
The  childish  soul  that  every  artist  has  within  him  burst 
out  frankly  at  the  announcement.  False  pretences  were 
over ;  every  man  showed  his  true  nature.  Some  hid  be- 
tween the  statues,  dejected  and  ashamed,  with  their  fists 
in  their  eyes,  weeping  at  the  thought  of  the  return  to 
their  distant  home,  of  the  long  misery  they  had  suffered 
with  no  other  hope  than  that  which  had  just  vanished. 
Others  stood  straight  as  roosters,  their  ears  red,  their 
lips  pale,  looking  toward  the  entrance  of  the  palace  with 
flaming  eyes,  as  if  they  wanted  to  see  from  there  a  cer- 
tain pretentious  house  with  a  Greek  fagade  and  a  gold  in- 
scription. "The  fossil !  It  is  a  shame  that  the  fortunes 
of  the  younger  men,  who  really  amount  to  something,  are 
entrusted  to  an  old  fogey  who  has  run  out,  a  'four-flusher' 
who  will  never  leave  anything  worth  while  behind  him!" 
Oh,  from  those  moments  had  arisen  all  the  an- 
noyances of  his  artistic  activity.  Every  time  that  he 
heard  of  an  unjust  censure,  a  brutal  denial  of  his  abil- 
ity, a  merciless  attack  in  some  obscure  paper,  he  remem- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  251 

bered  the  rotunda  of  the  Exhibition,  that  stormy  crowd 
of  painters  around  the  bits  of  paper  which  contained 
their  sentences.  He  thought  with  wonder  and  sympathy 
of  the  blindness  of  those  youths  who  cursed  life  because 
of  a  failure,  and  were  capable  of  giving  their  health, 
their  vigor,  in  exchange  for  the  sorry  glory  of  a  picture, 
less  lasting  even  than  the  frail  canvas.  Every  medal 
was  a  rung  on  the  ladder;  they  measured  the  importance 
of  these  awards,  giving  them  a  meaning  like  that  of  a 
soldier's  stripes.  And  he  too  had  been  young!  He  too 
had  embittered  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  these  combats, 
like  amoebae  who  struggle  together  in  a  drop  of  water, 
fancying  they  may  conquer  a  huge  world!  What  in- 
terest had  eternal  beauty  in  these  regimental  ambitions, 
in  this  ladder-climbing  fever  of  those  who  strove  to  be 
her  interpreters? 

The  master  went  home.  The  walk  had  made  him  for- 
get his  anxiety  of  the  night  before.  His  body,  weakened 
by  his  easy  life,  seemed  to  acknowledge  this  exercise  with 
a  violent  reaction.  His  legs  itched  slightly,  the  blood 
throbbed  in  his  temples,  it  seemed  to  spread  through  his 
body  in  a  wave  of  warmth.  He  exulted  in  his  power  and 
tasted  the  joy  of  every  organism  that  is  performing  its 
functions  in  harmonious  regularity. 

As  he  crossed  the  garden,  he  was  humming  a  song. 
He  smiled  to  the  concierge's  wife  who  had  opened  the 
gate  for  him  and  to  the  ugly  watchdog  who  came  up 
with  a  caressing  whine  to  lick  his  trousers.  He  opened 
the  glass  door,  passing  from  the  noise  outside  into  deep, 
convent -like  silence.  His  feet  sank  in  the  soft  rugs ;  the 
only  sounds  were  the  mysterious  trembling  of  the  pic- 
tures which  covered  the  walls  up  to  the  ceiling,  the 
creaking  of  invisible  wood-borers  in  the  picture  frames, 
the  swing  of  the  hangings  in  a  breath  of  air.  Every- 
thing that  the  master  had  painted;  studies  or  whims, 


252  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

finished  or  unfinished,  was  placed  on  the  ground  floor, 
together  with  pictures  and  drawings  by  some  famous 
companions  or  favorite  pupils.  Milita  had  amused  her-: 
self  for  a  long  time  before  she  was  married,  in  this 
decoration  which  reached  even  to  poorly  lighted  hall- 
ways. 

As  he  left  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  hat-rack,  the  eyes  of 
the  master  fell  on  a  nearby  water-color,  as  if  this  picture 
attracted  his  attention  among  the  others  which  sur- 
rounded it.  He  was  surprised  that  he  should  now  notice 
it  of  a  sudden,  after  passing  by  it  so  many  times  with- 
out seeing  it.  It  was  not  bad;  but  it  was  timid;  it 
showed  lack  of  experience.  Whose  could  it  be?  Per- 
haps Soldevilla's.  But  as  he  drew  near  to  see  it  better, 
he  smiled.  It  was  his  own !  How  differently  he  painted 
then!  He  tried  to  remember  when  and  where  he  had 
painted  it.  To  help  his  memory,  he  looked  closely  at  that 
charming  woman's  head,  with  its  dreamy  eyes,  wonder- 
ing who  the  model  could  have  been. 

Suddenly  a  cloud  came  over  his  face.  The  artist 
seemed  confused,  ashamed.  How  stupid!  It  was  his 
wife,  the  Josephina  of  the  early  days,  when  he  used  to 
gaze  at  her  admiringly,  delighting  in  reproducing  her 
face. 

He  threw  the  blame  for  his  slowness  on  Milita  and 
determined  to  have  the  study  taken  away  from  there. 
His  wife's  portrait  ought  not  be  in  the  hall,  beside  the 
hat-rack. 

After  luncheon  he  gave  orders  to  the  servant  to  take 
down  the  picture  and  move  it  into  one  of  the  drawing- 
rooms.  The  servant  looked  surprised. 

"There  are  so  many  portraits  of  the  mistress.  You 
have  painted  her  so  many  times,  sir.  The  house  is  full." 

Renovales  mimicked  the  servant's  expression.  "So 
many!  So  many!"  He  knew  how  many  times  he  had 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  253 

|  painted  her !     With  a  sudden  curiosity  before  going  to 

the  studio,  he  entered  the  parlor  where  Josephina  re- 

|  ceived  her  callers.     There,  in  the  place  of   honor,  he 

!  saw  a  large  portrait  of  his  wife,  painted  in  Rome,  a 

I  dainty  woman  with  a  lace  mantilla,  a  black  ruffled  skirt 

land,  in  her  hand,  a  tortoise-shell  fan — a  veritable  Goya. 

He  gazed  for  a  moment  at  that  attractive  face,  shaded 

by  the  black  lace,  its  oriental  eyes  in  sharp  contrast  to 

its  aristocratic  pallor.     How  beautiful  Josephina  was  in 

those  daysi 

He  opened  the  windows  the  better  to  see  the  portrait 
and  the  light  fell  on  the  dark  red  walls  making  the 
frames  of  other  smaller  pictures  flash. 

Then  the  painter  saw  that  the  Goyesque  picture  was 
not  the  only  one.  Other  Josephinas  accompanied  him 
in  the  solitude.  He  gazed  with  astonishment  at  the  face 
of  his  wife,  which  seemed  to  rise  from  all  sides  of  the 
parlor.  Little  studies  of  women  of  the  people  or  ladies 
of  the  i8th  century;  water-colors  of  Moorish  women; 
Greek  women  with  the  stiff  severity  of  Alma-Tadema's 
archaic  figures;  everything  in  the  parlor,  everything  he 
had  painted,  was  Josephina,  had  her  face,  or  showed 
traces  of  her  with  the  vagueness  of  a  memory. 

He  passed  to  the  adjoining  parlor  and  there,  too,  his 
wife's  face,  painted  by  him,  came  to  meet  him  among 
other  pictures  by  his  friends. 

When  had  he  done  all  that  ?  He  could  not  remember ; 
he  was  surprised  at  the  enormous  quantity  of  work  he 
had  performed  unconsciously.  He  seemed  to  have  spent 
his  whole  life  painting  Josephina. 

Afterwards,  in  all  the  hallways,  in  all  the  rooms  where 
pictures  were  hung,  his  wife  met  his  gaze,  under  the 
most  varied  aspects,  frowning  or  smiling,  beautiful  or 
j  sad  with  sickness.     They  were  sketched,  simple,  unfin- 
ished charcoal  drawings  of  her  head  in  the  corner  of  a 


254  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

canvas,  but  always  that  glance  followed  him,  sometimes 
with  an  expression  of  melancholy  tenderness,  sometimes 
with  intense  reproach.  Where  had  his  eyes  been?  He 
had  lived  amid  all  this  without  seeing  it.  Every  day  he 
had  passed  by  Josephina  without  noticing  her.  His  wife 
was  resurrected;  henceforth,  she  would  sit  down  at 
table,  she  would  enter  his  chamber,  he  would  pass  through 
the  house  always  under  the  gaze  of  two  eyes  which  in 
the  past  had  pierced  into  his  soul. 

The  dead  woman  was  not  dead ;  she  hovered  about  him, 
revived  by  his  hand.  He  could  not  take  a  step  without 
seeing  her  face  on  every  side.  She  greeted  him  from 
above  the  doors,  from  the  ends  of  the  rooms  she  seemed 
to  call  him. 

In  his  three  studios,  his  surprise  was  still  greater.  All 
his  most  intimate  painting,  which  he  had  done  as  study, 
from  impulse,  without  any  desire  for  sale,  was  stored 
away  there,  and  all  was  a  memory  of  the  dead  woman. 
The  pictures  which  dazzled  the  callers  were  hung  low, 
down  on  the  level  of  the  eyes,  on  easels,  or  fastened  to 
the  wall,  amid  the  sumptuous  furniture ;  up  above,  reach- 
ing to  the  ceiling  were  arranged  the  studies,  memories, 
unframed  canvases,  like  old,  forgotten  works,  and  in 
this  collection  at  the  first  glance  Renovales  saw  the 
enigmatic  face  rising  towards  him. 

He  had  lived  without  lifting  his  eyes,  accustomed  as 
he  was  to  everything  about  him,  and  looking  around, 
without  seeing,  without  noticing  those  women,  different 
in  appearance  but  alike  in  expression,  who  watched  him 
from  above.  And  the  countess  had  been  there  several 
afternoons,  to  see  him  alone  in  the  studio!  And  the 
Persian  silk  draperies,  hung  on  lances  before  the  deep 
divan,  had  not  hidden  them  from  that  sad,  fixed  gaze 
which  seemed  to  multiply  in  the  upper  stretch  of  the 
walls. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  255 

To  forget  his  remorse,  he  amused  himself  by  counting 
the  canvases  which  reproduced  his  wife's  dainty  little 
face.  They  were  many — the  whole  life  of  an  artist.  He 
tried  to  remember  when  and  where  he  had  painted  them. 
In  the  first  days  of  his  love,  he  felt  that  he  must  paint 
her,  with  an  irresistible  impulse  to  transfer  to  the  canvas 
everything  he  delighted  to  see,  everything  he  loved.  Af- 
terwards, it  had  been  a  desire  to  flatter  her,  to  coax  her 
with  a  false  show  of  affection,  to  convince  her  that  she 
was  the  only  object  of  his  artistic  worship,  copying  her  in 
a  vague  likeness,  giving  to  her  features,  marred  by  illness, 
a  soft  veil  of  idealism.  He  could  not  live  without  work- 
ing and,  like  many  painters,  he  used  as  models  the  people 
around  him.  His  daughter  had  carried  to  her  new  home 
a  load  of  paintings,  all  the  pictures,  rough  sketches, 
water-colors  and  panels  which  represented  her  from  the 
time  she  used  to  play  with  the  cat,  dressing  him  in  baby 
clothes,  until  she  was  a  proud  young  lady,  courted  by 
Soldevilla  and  the  man  who  was  now  her  husband. 

The  mother  had  remained  there,  rising  after  death 
about  the  artist  in  oppressive  profusion.  All  the  little 
incidents  in  life  had  given  Reno  vales  an  occasion  to  paint 
new  pictures.  He  recalled  his  enthusiasm  every  time  he 
saw  her  in  a  new  dress.  The  colors  changed  her;  she 
was  a  new  woman,  so  he  would  declare  with  a  vehemence 
which  his  wife  took  for  admiration  and  which  was  merely 
the  desire  for  a  model. 

Josephina's  whole  life  had  been  fixed  by  her  husband's 
hand.  In  one  canvas  she  appeared  dressed  in  white, 
walking  through  a  meadow  with  the  poetic  dreaminess 
of  an  Ophelia;  in  another,  wearing  a  large,  plumed  hat 
covered  with  jewels,  she  showed  the  self-satisfaction  of 
a  manufacturer's  wife,  secure  in  her  well-being;  a  black 
curtain  served  as  a  background  for  her  bare  neck  and 
shoulders.  In  another  picture  she  had  her  sleeves  rolled 


256  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

up;  a  white  apron  covered  her  from  her  breast  to  her 
feet,  on  her  forehead  was  a  little  wrinkle  of  care  and 
weariness,  and  in  her  whole  mien  the  carelessness  of 
one  who  has  no  time  to  attend  to  the  adornment  of  her 
person.  This  last  was  the  portrait  of  the  bitter  days, 
the  image  of  the  courageous  housekeeper,  without  ser- 
vants, working  with  her  delicate  hands  in  a  wretched 
attic,  striving  that  the  artist  might  lack  nothing,  that 
the  petty  annoyances  of  life  might  not  come  to  distract 
him  from  his  supreme  efforts  for  success. 

This  portrait  filled  the  artist  with  the  melancholy  which 
the  memory  of  bitter  days  inspires  in  the  midst  of  com- 
fort. His  gratitude  toward  his  brave  companion  brought 
with  it  once  more  remorse. 

"Oh,  Josephina!    Josephina!" 

When  Cotoner  arrived,  he  found  the  master  lying 
face  down  on  the  couch  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  as 
if  he  were  asleep.  He  tried  to  interest  him  by  talking 
about  the  function  of  the  day  before.  A  great  success; 
the  papers  spoke  of  him  and  his  speech,  declaring  that  he 
was  a  great  writer  and  could  win  as  marked  a  success  in 
literature  as  in  art.  Had  he  not  read  them? 

Renovales  answered  with  a  bored  expression.  He 
had  found  them,  when  he  went  out  in  the  morning,  on 
a  table  in  the  reception-room.  He  had  cast  a  glance  at 
his  picture  surrounded  by  the  solid  columns  of  his  speech 
but  he  had  put  off  reading  the  praises  until  later.  They 
did  not  interest  him;  he  was  thinking  of  something 
else — he  was  sad. 

And  in  answer  to  Cotoner's  anxious  questions,  who 
thought  he  must  be  ill,  he  said  quietly : 

"I  am  well  enough.  It's  melancholy.  I'm  tired  of 
doing  nothing.  I  want  to  work  and  haven't  the  strength." 

Suddenly  he  interrupted  his  old  friend,  pointing  to 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  257 

all  the  portraits  of  Josephina,  as  if  they  were  new  works 
which  he  had  just  produced. 

Cotoner  expressed  surprise.  He  knew  them  all;  they 
had  been  there  for  years.  What  was  strange  about  them  ? 

The  master  told  him  of  his  recent  surprise.  He  had 
lived  beside  them  without  seeing  them,  he  had  just  dis- 
covered them  two  hours  before.  And  Cotoner  laughed. 

"You  are  rather  unsettled,  Mariano.  You  live  with- 
out noticing  what  is  around  you.  That  is  why  you  don't 
know  of  Soldevilla's  marriage  to  a  rich  girl.  The  poor 
boy  was  disappointed  because  his  master  was  not  present 
at  the  wedding/' 

Renovales  shrugged  his  shoulders.  What  did  he  care 
for  such  follies  ?  There  was  a  long  pause  and  the  master, 
pensive  and  sad,  suddenly  raised  his  head  with  a  de- 
termined expression. 

"What  do  you  think  of  those  portraits,  Pepe?"  he 
asked  anxiously.  "Is  it  she?  I  couldn't  have  made  a 
mistake  in  painting  them,  I  couldn't  have  seen  her  differ- 
ent from  what  she  really  was,  could  I?" 

Cotoner  broke  out  laughing.  Really,  the  master  was 
out  of  his  mind.  What  questions !  Those  portraits  were 
marvels,  like  all  of  his  work.  But  Renovales  insisted 
with  the  impatience  of  doubt.  His  opinion !  Were  those 
Josephinas  like  his  wife ! 

"Exactly,"  said  the  Bohemian.  "Why,  man  alive, 
their  fidelity  to  life  is  the  most  astonishing  thing  about 
your  portraits!" 

He  declared  this  confidently,  but  a  shadow  of  doubt 
worried  him.  Yes,  it  was  Josephina,  but  there  was  some- 
thing unusual,  idealized  about  her.  Her  features  looked 
the  same,  but  they  had  an  inner  light  that  made  them 
more  beautiful.  It  was  a  defect  he  had  always  found  in 
these  pictures,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"And  she,"  insisted  the  master,  "was  she  really  beau- 


258  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

tiful?  What  did  you  think  of  her  as  a  woman?  Tell 
me,  Pepe, — without  hesitating.  It's  strange,  I  can't  re- 
member very  well  what  she  was  like/' 

Cotoner  was  disconcerted  by  these  questions,  and  an- 
swered with  some  embarrassment.  What  an  odd  thing! 
Josephina  was  very  good — an  angel;  he  always  remem- 
bered her  with  gratitude.  He  had  wept  for  her  as  for 
a  mother,  though  she  might  almost  have  been  his  daugh- 
ter. She  had  always  been  very  considerate  and  thought- 
ful of  the  poor  Bohemian. 

"Not  that,"  interrupted  the  master.  "I  want  to  know 
if  you  thought  she  was  beautiful,  if  she  really  was 
beautiful." 

"Why,  man,  yes,"  said  Cotoner  resolutely.  "She  was 
beautiful  or,  rather,  attractive.  At  the  end  she  seemed 
a  bit  changed.  Her  illness!  But  all  in  all,  an  angel." 

And  the  master,  calmed  by  these  words,  stood  looking 
at  his  own  works. 

"Yes,  she  was  very  beautiful,"  he  said  slowly,  without 
turning  his  eyes  from  the  canvases.  "Now  I  recognize  it ; 
now  I  see  her  better.  It's  strange,  Pepe.  It  seems  as 
if  I  have  found  Josephina  to-day  after  a  long  journey. 
I  had  forgotten  her;  I  was  no  longer  certain  what  her 
face  was  like." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  and  once  more  the 
master  began  to  ply  his  friend  with  anxious  questions. 

"Did  she  love  me  ?  Do  you  think  she  really  loved  me  ? 
Was  it  love  that  made  her  sometimes  act  so — strangely  ?" 

This  time  Cotoner  did  not  hesitate  as  he  had  at  the 
former  questions. 

"Love  you?  Wildly,  Mariano.  As  no  man  has  been 
loved  in  this  world.  All  that  there  was  between  you  was 
jealousy — too  much  affection.  I  know  it  better  than 
anyone  else;  old  friends,  like  me,  who  go  in  and  out  of 
the  house  just  like  old  dogs,  are  treated  with  intimacy 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  259 

and  hear  things  the  husband  does  not  know.  Believe 
me,  Mariano,  no  one  will  ever  love  you  as  she  did.  Her 
sulky  words  were  only  passing  clouds.  I  am  sure  you  no 
longer  remember  them.  What  did  not  pass,  was  the 
other,  the  love  she  bore  you.  I  am  positive;  you  know 
that  she  told  me  everything,  that  I  was  the  only  person 
she  could  tolerate  toward  the  end." 

Renovales  seemed  to  thank  his  friend  for  these  words 
with  a  glance  of  joy. 

They  went  out  to  walk  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon, 
going  toward  the  center  of  Madrid.  Renovales  talked 
of  their  youth,  of  their  days  in  Rome.  He  laughed  as 
he  reminded  Cotoner  of  his  famous  stock  of  Popes,  he 
recalled  the  funny  shows  in  the  studios,  the  noisy  en- 
tertainments, and  then,  after  he  was  married,  the  eve- 
nings of  friendly  intercourse  in  that  pretty  little  dining- 
room  on  the  Via  Margutta ;  the  arrival  of  the  Bohemian 
and  the  other  artists  of  his  circle  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea 
with  the  young  couple;  the  loud  discussions  over  paint- 
ing, which  made  the  neighbors  protest,  while  she,  his 
Josephina,  still  surprised  at  finding  herself  the  mistress 
of  a  household,  without  her  mother,  and  surrounded  by 
men,  smiled  timidly  to  them  all,  thinking  that  those  fear- 
ful comrades,  with  hair  like  highwaymen  but  as  innocent 
and  peevish  as  children,  were  very  funny  and  interesting. 

"Those  were  the  days,  Pepe !  Youth,  which  we  never 
appreciate  till  it  has  gone!" 

Walking  straight  ahead,  without  knowing  where  they 
were  going,  absorbed  in  their  conversation  and  their 
memories,  they  suddenly  found  themselves  at  the  Puerta 
del  Sol.  Night  had  fallen;  the  electric  lights  were  com- 
ing out ;  the  shop  windows  threw  patches  of  light  on  the 
sidewalks. 

Cotoner  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  Government  Build- 
ing. 


260  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Aren't  you  going  to  the  Alberca  woman's  house  to- 
night?" 

Renovales  seemed  to  awaken.  Yes,  he  must  go;  they 
expected  him.  But  he  was  not  going.  His  friend  looked 
at  him  with  a  shocked  expression,  as  if  he  considered 
it  a  serious  error  to  scorn  a  dinner. 

The  painter  seemed  to  lack  the  courage  to  spend  the 
evening  between  Concha  and  her  husband.  He  thought 
of  her  with  a  sort  of  aversion;  he  felt  as  if  he  might 
brutally  repel  her  constant  caresses  and  tell  everything 
to  the  husband  in  an  outburst  of  frankness.  It  was  a 
disgrace,  treachery — that  life  a  trois  which  the  society 
woman  accepted  as  the  happiest  of  states. 

"It's  intolerable,"  he  said  to  dissipate  his  friend's  sur- 
prise. "I  can't  stand  her.  She's  a  regular  barnacle,  and 
won't  let  me  go  for  a  minute." 

He  had  never  spoken  to  Cotoner  of  his  affair  with  the 
Alberca  woman,  but  he  did  not  have  to  tell  him  any- 
thing, he  assumed  that  he  knew. 

"But  she's  pretty,  Mariano,"  said  he.  "A  wonderful 
woman !  You  know  I  admire  her.  You  might  use  her 
for  your  Greek  picture." 

The  master  cast  at  him  a  glance  of  pity  for  his  igno- 
rance. He  felt  a  desire  to  scoff  at  her,  to  injure  her,  thus 
justifying  his  indifference. 

"Nothing  but  a  fagade.    A  face  and  a  figure." 

And  bending  over  toward  his  friend  he  whispered  to 
him  seriously  as  if  he  were  revealing  the  secret  of  a 
terrible  crime. 

"She's  knock-kneed.     A  regular  swindle." 

A  satyr-like  smile  spread  over  Cotoner's  lips  and  his 
ears  wriggled.  It  was  the  joy  of  a  chaste  man ;  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  the  secret  defects  of  a  beauty  who 
was  out  of  his  reach. 

The  master  did  not  want  to  leave  his   friend.     He 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  261 

needed  him,  he  looked  at  him  with  tender  sympathy, 
seeing  in  him  something  of  his  dead  wife.  When  she 
was  sad,  he  had  been  her  confidant.  When  her  nerves 
were  on  edge,  this  simple  man's  words  ended  the  crisis 
in  a  flood  of  tears.  With  whom  could  he  talk  about  her 
better? 

"We  will  dine  together,  Pepe;  we  will  go  to  the  Itali- 
anos — a  Roman  banquet,  ravioli,  piccata,  anything  you 
want  and  a  bottle  of  Chianti  or  two,  as  many  as  you  can 
drink,  and  at  the  end  sparkling  Asti,  better  than  cham- 
pagne. Does  that  suit  you,  old  man  ?" 

Arm  in  arm  they  walked  along,  their  heads  high,  a 
smile  on  their  lips,  like  two  young  painters,  eager  to 
celebrate  a  recent  sale  with  a  gluttonous  relief  from  their 
misery. 

Renovales  went  back  into  his  memories  and  poured 
them  out  in  a  torrent.  He  reminded  Cotoner  of  a  trat- 
toria in  an  alley  in  Rome,  beyond  the  statue  of  Pasquino, 
before  you  reach  the  Via  Governo  Vecchio,  a  chop  house 
of  ecclesiastical  quiet,  run  by  the  former  cook  of  a  cardi- 
nal. The  shelves  of  the  establishment  were  always  cov- 
ered with  the  headgear  of  the  profession,  priestly  tiles. 
The  merriment  of  the  artists  shocked  the  sedate  frugality 
of  the  habitues,  priests  of  the  Papal  palace  or  visitors 
who  were  in  Rome  scheming  advancement ;  loud-mouthed 
lawyers  in  dirty  frock-coats  from  the  nearby  Palace  of 
Justice,  loaded  with  papers. 

"What  maccheroni!  Remember,  Pepe?  How  poor 
Josephina  liked  it !" 

They  used  to  reach  the  trattoria  at  night  in  a  merry 
company — she  on  his  arm  and  around  them  the  friends 
whose  admiration  for  the  promising  young  painter  at- 
tracted them  to  him.  Josephina  worshiped  the  mys- 
teries of  the  kitchen,  the  traditional  secrets  of  the  solemn 
table  of  the  princes  of  the  Church,  which  had  come  down 


262  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

to  the  street,  taking  refuge  in  that  little  room.  On  the 
white  table  cloth  trembled  the  amber  reflection  of  the 
wine  of  Orvieto  in  decanters,  a  thick,  yellow,  golden 
liquid,  of  clerical  sweetness,  a  drink  of  old-time  pontiffs, 
which  descended  to  the  stomach  like  fire  and  more  than 
once  had  mounted  to  heads  covered  with  the  tiara. 

On  moonlit  nights,  they  used  to  go  from  there  and 
walk  to  the  Colosseum  to  look  at  the  gigantic,  monstrous 
ruin  under  the  flood  of  blue  light.  Josephina,  shaking 
with  nervous  excitement,  went  down  into  the  dark  tun- 
nels, groping  along  among  the  fallen  stones,  till  she  was 
on  the  open  slope,  facing  the  silent  circle,  which  seemed 
to  enclose  the  corpse  of  a  whole  people.  Looking  around 
with  anxiety,  she  thought  of  the  terrible  beasts  which  had 
trod  upon  that  sand.  Suddenly  came  a  frightful  roar 
and  a  black  beast  leaped  forth  from  the  deep  vomitory. 
Josephina  clung  to  her  husband,  with  a  shriek  of  terror, 
and  all  laughed.  It  was  Simpson,  an  American  painter, 
who  bent  over,  walking  on  all  fours,  to  attack  his  com- 
panions with  fierce  cries. 

"Do  you  remember,  Pepe?"  Renovales  kept  saying, 
"What  days!  What  joy!  What  a  fine  companion  the 
little  girl  was  before  her  illness  saddened  her !" 

They  dined,  talking  of  their  youth,  mingling  with  their 
memories  the  image  of  the  dead.  Afterwards,  they 
walked  the  streets  till  midnight,  and  Renovales  was  al- 
ways going  back  to  those  days,  recalling  his  Josephina, 
as  if  he  had  spent  his  life  worshiping  her.  Cotoner 
was  tired  of  the  conversation  and  said  "Good-by"  to 
the  master.  What  new  hobby  was  this  ?  Poor  Josephina 
was  very  interesting,  but  they  had  spent  the  whole  eve- 
ning without  talking  of  anything  else,  as  though  mem- 
ory of  her  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world. 

Renovales  started  home  impatiently;  he  took  a  cab  to 
get  there  sooner.  He  felt  as  anxious  as  if  some  one 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  263 

were  waiting  for  him;  that  showy  house,  cold  and  soli- 
tary before,  seemed  animated  with  a  spirit  he  could 
not  define,  a  beloved  soul  which  filled  it,  pervading  all 
like  perfume. 

As  he  entered,  preceded  by  the  sleepy  servant,  his  first 
glance  was  for  the  watercolor.  He  smiled;  he  wanted 
to  bid  good-night  to  that  head  whose  eyes  rested  on  him. 

For  all  the  Josephinas  who  met  his  gaze,  rising  from 
the  shadow  of  the  walls,  as  he  turned  on  the  electric 
lights  in  the  parlors  and  hallways,  he  had  the  same 
smile  and  greeting.  He  no  longer  was  uneasy  in  the 
presence  of  those  faces  which  he  had  looked  at  in  the 
morning  with  surprise  and  fear.  She  saw  him ;  she  read 
his  thoughts ;  she  forgave  him,  surely.  She  had  always 
been  so  good ! 

He  hesitated  a  moment  on  his  way,  wishing  to  go  to 
the  studios  and  turn  on  the  lights.  There  he  could  see 
her  full  length,  in  all  her  grace;  he  would  talk  to  her, 
he  would  ask  her  forgiveness  in  the  deep  silence  of  those 
great  rooms.  But  the  master  stopped.  What  was  he 
thinking  of  ?  Was  he  going  to  lose  his  senses  ?  He  drew 
his  hand  across  his  forehead,  as  if  he  wanted  to  wipe 
these  ideas  out  of  his  mind.  No  doubt  it  was  the  Asti 
that  led  him  to  such  absurdities.  To  sleep ! 

When  he  was  in  the  dark,  lying  in  his  daughter's  little 
bed,  he  felt  uneasy.  He  could  not  sleep,  he  was  uncom- 
fortable. He  was  tempted  to  go  out  of  the  room  and  take 
refuge  in  the  deserted  bed-chamber  as  if  only  there  could 
he  find  rest  and  sleep.  Oh,  the  Venetian  bed,  that 
princely  piece  of  furniture  which  kept  his  whole  history, 
where  he  had  whispered  words  of  love ;  where  they  had 
talked  so  many  times  in  low  tones  of  his  longing  for 
glory  and  wealth ;  where  his  daughter  was  born ! 

With  the  energy  which  showed  in  all  his  whims,  the 
master  put  on  his  clothes,  and  quietly,  as  if  he  feared 


264  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

to  be  overheard  by  his  servant  who  slept  nearby,  made 
his  way  to  the  chamber. 

He  turned  the  key  with  the  caution  of  a  thief,  and;1 
advanced  on  tiptoe,  under  the  soft,  pink  light  which  an. 
old  lantern  shed  from  the  center  of  the  ceiling.  He 
carefully  stretched  out  the  mattresses  on  the  abandoned 
bed.  There  were  no  sheets  nor  pillows.  The  room  sdj 
long  deserted  was  cold.  What  a  pleasant  night  he  was 
going  to  spend!  How  well  he  would  sleep  there!  The 
gold-embroidered  cushions  from  a  sofa  would  serve  as 
a  pillow.  He  wrapped  himself  in  an  overcoat  and  got 
into  bed,  dressed,  putting  out  the  light  so  as  not  to  see 
reality,  to  dream,  peopling  the  darkness  with  the  sweet 
deceits  of  his  fancy. 

On  those  mattresses,  Josephina  had  slept.  He  did  not 
see  her  as  in  the  last  days, — sick,  emaciated,  worn  with 
physical  suffering.  His  mind  repelled  that  painful  image, 
bent  on  beautiful  illusions.  The  Josephina  whom  he  saw, 
the  Josephina  within  him,  was  the  other,  of  the  first 
days  of  their  love,  and  not  as  she  had  been  in  reality  but 
as  he  had  seen  her,  as  he  had  painted  her. 

His  memory  passed  over  a  great  stretch  of  time,  dark 
and  stormy;  it  leaped  from  the  regret  of  the  present  toi 
the  happy  days  of  youth.  He  no  longer  recalled  the1 
years  of  trying  confinement,  when  they  quarreled  to- 
gether, unable  to  follow  the  same  path.  They  were  unim- 
portant disturbances  in  life.  He  thought  only  of  her  smil- 
ing kindness,  her  generosity,  and  submissiveness.  How 
tenderly  they  had  lived  together,  for  a  part  of  their  life,  in 
that  bed  which  now  knew  only  the  loneliness  of  his  body. 

The  artist  shivered  under  his  inadequate  covering.  In 
this  abnormal  situation,  exterior  impressions  called  up< 
memories — fragments  of  the  past  that  slowly  came  tO] 
his  mind.  The  cold  made  him  think  of  the  rainy  nights 
in  Venice,  when  it  poured  for  hour  after  hour  on  the 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  265 

narrow  alleys  and  deserted  canals  in  the  deep,  solemn 
silence  of  a  city  without  horses,  without  wheels,  without 
any  sound  of  life,  except  the  lapping  of  the  solitary 
water  on  the  marble  stairways.  They  were  in  the  same 
calm,  under  the  warm  eider-down,  amid  the  same  furni- 
ture which  he  now  half  saw  in  the  shadow. 

Through  the  slits  of  the  lowered  blind  shone  the  glow 
of  the  lamp  which  lighted  the  nearby  canal.  On  the  ceil- 
ing a  spot  of  light  flickered  with  the  reflection  of  the  dead 
water,  constantly  crossed  by  lines  of  shadow.  They, 
closely  embraced,  watched  this  play  of  light  and  water 
above  them.  They  knew  that  outside  it  was  cold  and 
damp ;  they  exulted  in  their  physical  warmth,  in  the  self- 
ishness of  being  together,  with  that  delicious  sense  of 
comfort,  buried  in  silence  as  if  the  world  were  a  thing  of 
the  past,  as  if  their  chamber  were  a  warm  oasis,  in  the 
midst  of  cold  and  darkness. 

Sometimes  they  heard  a  mournful  cry  in  the  silence. 
Aooo!  It  was  the  gondolier  giving  warning  before  he 
turned  the  corner.  Across  the  spot  of  light  which  shim- 
mered on  the  ceiling  slipped  a  black,  Lilliputian  gondola, 
a  shadow  toy,  on  the  stern  of  which  bent  a  manikin  the 
size  of  a  fly,  wielding  the  oar.  And,  thinking  of  those 
who  passed  in  the  rain,  lashed  by  the  icy  gusts,  they  expe- 
rienced a  new  pleasure  and  clung  closer  to  each  other 
under  the  soft  eider-down  and  their  lips  met,  disturbing 
the  calm  of  their  rest  with  the  noisy  insolence  of  youth 
and  love. 

Renovales  no  longer  felt  cold.  He  turned  restlessly 
on  the  mattresses;  the  metallic  embroidery  of  the  cush- 
ions stuck  in  his  face;  he  stretched  out  his  arms  in  the 
darkness,  and  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  despairing 
cry,  the  lament  of  a  child  who  demands  the  impossible, 
who  asks  for  the  moon. 

"Josephina  f    Josephina !" 


Ill 


ONE  morning  the  painter  sent  an  urgent  summons  to 
Cotoner  and  the  latter  arrived  in  great  alarm  at  the  terms 
of  the  message. 

"It's  nothing  serious/'  said  Renovales.  "I  want  you 
to  tell  me  where  Josephina  was  buried.  I  want  to  see 
her." 

It  was  a  desire  which  had  been  slowly  taking  form  in 
his  mind  during  several  nights;  a  whim  of  the  long 
hours  of  sleeplessness  through  which  he  dragged  in  the 
darkness. 

More  than  a  week  before,  he  had  moved  into  the 
large  chamber,  choosing  among  the  bed  linen,  with  a 
painstaking  care  that  surprised  the  servants,  the  most 
worn  sheets,  which  called  up  old  memories  with  their 
embroidery.  He  did  not  find  in  this  linen  that  perfume 
of  the  closets  which  had  disturbed  him  so  deeply;  but 
there  was  something  in  them,  the  illusion,  the  certainty 
that  she  had  many  a  time  touched  them. 

After  soberly  and  severely  telling  Cotoner  of  his  wish, 
Renovales  felt  that  he  must  offer  some  excuse.  It  was 
disgraceful  that  he  did  not  know  where  Josephina  was; 
that  he  had  not  yet  gone  to  visit  her.  His  grief  at  her 
death  had  left  him  helpless  and  afterward,  the  long 
journey. 

"You  always  know  things,  Pepe !  You  had  charge  of 
the  funeral  arrangements.  Tell  me  where  she  is;  take 
me  to  see  her/' 

Up  to  that  time  he  had  not  thought  of  her  remains. 
He  remembered  the  day  of  the  funeral,  his  dramatic 

266 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  267 

I  grief  which  kept  him  in  a  corner  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands.  His  intimate  friends,  the  elect,  who  pene- 
trated to  his  retreat,  clad  in  black,  and  wearing  gloomy 
faces,  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  effusively.  "Cour- 
age, Mariano.  Be  strong,  master."  And  outside  the 
house,  a  constant  trampling  of  horses'  feet;  the  iron 
fence  black  with  the  curious  crowd,  a  double  file  of  car- 
riages as  far  as  the  eye  could  see;  reporters  going  from 
group  to  group,  taking  down  names. 

All  Madrid  was  there.  And  they  had  carried  her  away 
to  the  slow  step  of  a  pair  of  horses  with  waving  plumes, 
amid  the  undertaker's  men  in  white  wigs  and  gold  batons 
— and  he  had  forgotten  her,  had  felt  no  interest  in  seeing 
the  corner  of  the  cemetery  where  she  was  buried  forever, 
under  the  glare  of  the  sun,  under  the  night  rains  that 
dripped  upon  her  grave.  He  cursed  himself  now  for  this 
outrageous  neglect. 

''Tell  me  where  she  is,  Pepe.  Take  me.  I  want  to  see 
her." 

He  implored  with  the  eagerness  of  remorse ;  he  wanted 
to  see  her  once,  as  soon  as  possible,  like  a  sinner  who 
fears  death  and  cries  for  absolution. 

Cotoner  acceded  to  this  immediate  trip.  She  was  in 
the  Almudena  cemetery,  which  had  been  closed  for  some 
time.  Only  those  who  had  long  standing  titles  to  a  lot 
went  there  now.  Cotoner  had  desired  to  bury  Josephina 
beside  her  mother  in  the  same  inclosure  where  the  stone 
that  covered  the  "lamented  genius  of  diplomacy"  was 
growing  tarnished.  He  wanted  her  to  rest  among  her 
own. 

On  the  way,  Renovales  felt  a  sort  of  anguish.  Like  a 
sleep-walker  he  saw  the  streets  of  the  city  passing  by  the 
carriage  window,  then  they  went  down  a  steep  hill,  ill- 
kempt  gardens,  where  loafers  were  sleeping,  leaning 
against  the  trees,  or  women  were  combing  their  hair  in 


268  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  sun;  a  bridge;  wretched  suburbs  with  tumble-down 
houses;  then  the  open  country,  hilly  roads  and  at  last  a 
grove  of  cypress  trees  beyond  an  adobe  wall  and  the 
tops  of  marble  buildings,  angels  stretching  out  their  wings 
with  a  trumpet  at  their  lips,  great  crosses,  torch-holders 
mounted  on  tripods,  and  a  pure,  blue  sky  which  seemed 
to  smile  with  superhuman  indifference  at  the  excite- 
ment of  that  ant,  named  Renovales. 

He  was  going  to  see  her ;  to  step  on  the  ground  which 
covered  her  body;  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  in  which 
there  was  still  perhaps  some  of  that  warmth  which  was 
the  breath  of  the  dead  woman's  soul.  What  would  he  say 
to  her? 

As  he  entered  the  graveyard  he  looked  at  the  keeper, 
an  ugly,  dismal  old  fellow,  as  pale  and  yellow  and  greasy 
as  a  wax  candle.  That  man  lived  constantly  near  Jose- 
phina!  He  was  seized  with  generous  gratitude;  he  had 
to  restrain  himself,  thinking  of  his  companion,  or  he 
would  have  given  him  all  the  money  he  had  with  him. 

Their  steps  resounded  in  the  silence.  They  felt  the 
murmuring  calm  of  an  abandoned  garden  about  them, 
where  there  were  more  pavilions  and  statues  than  trees. 
They  went  down  ruined  colonnades,  which  echoed  their 
steps  strangely;  over  slabs  which  sounded  hollow  under 
their  feet, — the  void,  trembling  at  the  light  touch  of 
life. 

The  dead  who  slept  there  were  dead  indeed,  without 
the  least  resurrection  of  memory,  completely  deserted, 
sharing  in  the  universal  decay, — unnamed,  separated  from 
life  forever.  From  the  beehive  close  by,  no  one  came  to 
give  new  life  with  tears  and  offerings  to  the  ephemeral 
personality  they  once  had,  to  the  name  which  marked 
them  for  a  moment. 

Wreaths  hung  from  the  crosses,  black  and  unraveled, 
with  a  swarm  of  insects  in  their  fragments.  The  exuber- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  269 


ant  vegetation,  where  no  one  ever  passed,  stretched  in 
every  direction,  loosening  the  tombstones  with  its  roots, 
springing  the  steps  of  the  resounding  stairways.  The 
rain,  slowly  filtering  through  the  ground,  had  produced 
hollows.  Some  of  the  slabs  were  cracked  open,  reveal- 
ing deep  holes. 

They  had  to  walk  carefully,  fearing  that  the  hollow 
ground  would  suddenly  open;  they  had  to  avoid  the  de- 
pressions where  a  stone  with  letters  of  pale  gold  and  no- 
ble coats-of-arms  lay  half  on  its  side. 

The  painter  walked  trembling  with  the  sadness  of  an 
immense  disappointment,  questioning  the  value  of  his 
greatest  interests.  And  this  was  life!  Human  beauty 
ended  like  this !  This  was  all  that  the  human  mind  came 
to  and  here  it  must  stop  in  all  its  pride ! 

"Here  it  is !"  said  Cotoner. 

They  had  entered  between  two  rows  of  tombs  so  close 
together  that  as  they  passed  they  brushed  against  the 
old  ornaments  which  crumbled  and  fell  at  the  touch. 

It  was  a  simple  tomb,  a  sort  of  coffin  of  white  mar- 
ble which  rose  a  few  inches  above  the  ground,  with  an 
elevation  at  one  end,  like  the  bolster  of  a  bed  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  cross. 

Renovales  was  cold.  There  was  Josephina!  He  read 
the  inscription  several  times,  as  if  he  could  not  convince 
himself.  It  was  she;  the  letters  reproduced  her  name, 
with  a  brief  lament  of  her  inconsolable  husband,  which 
seemed  to  him  senseless,  artificial,  disgraceful. 

He  had  come  trembling  with  anxiety  at  the  thought  of 
the  terrible  moment  when  he  should  behold  Josephina's 
last  resting  place.  To  .feel  that  he  was  near  her,  to  tread 
upon  the  ground  in  which  she  rested !  He  would  not  be 
able  to  resist  this  critical  moment,  he  would  weep  like  a 
child,  he  would  fall  on  his  knees,  sobbing  in  deadly  an- 
guish. 


270  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Well,  he  was  there ;  the  tomb  was  before  his  eyes  and 
still,  they  were  dry;  they  looked  about  coldly  in  sur- 
prise. 

She  was  there!  He  knew  it  from  his  friend's  state- 
ment, from  the  declamatory  inscription  on  the  tomb,  but 
nothing  warned  him  of  her  presence.  He  remained  in- 
different, looking  curiously  at  the  adjoining  graves,  filled 
with  a  monstrous  desire  to  laugh,  seeing  in  death  only 
his  sardonic  buffoon's  mask. 

At  one  side,  a  gentleman  who  rested  under  the  end- 
less list  of  his  titles  and  honors,  a  sort  of  Count  of  Al- 
berca,  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  solemnity  of  his 
greatness,  waiting  for  the  angel's  trumpet-blast  to  appear 
before  the  Lord  with  all  his  parchments  and  crosses.  On 
the  other,  a  general  who  rotted  under  a  marble  slab, 
engraved  with  cannon,  guns  and  banners,  as  though  he 
hoped  to  terrify  death.  In  what  ludicrous  promiscuity 
Josephina  had  come  to  sleep  her  last  sleep,  mingled  with 
forms  she  had  not  known  in  life!  They  were  her  eter- 
nal, her  final  lovers ;  they  carried  her  off  from  his  very 
presence  and  forever,  indifferent  to  the  pressing  concerns 
of  the  living.  Oh,  Death !  What  a  cruel  mocker !  The 
earth!  How  cold  and  cynical! 

He  was  sad  and  disgusted  at  human  insignificance — 
but  he  did  not  weep.  He  saw  only  the  external  and  ma- 
terial— the  form,  always  the  concern  of  his  thoughts. 
Standing  before  the  tomb  he  felt  merely  his  vulgar  mean- 
ness, with  a  sort  of  shame.  She  was  his  wife ;  the  wife 
of  a  great  artist. 

He  thought  of  the  most  famous  sculptors,  all  friends 
of  his ;  he  would  talk  to  them,  they  should  erect  an  im- 
posing sepulcher  with  weeping  statues,  symbolical  of 
fidelity,  gentleness  and  love,  a  sepulcher  worthy  of  the 
companion  of  Renovales.  And  nothing  more;  his 
thought  went  no  farther;  his  imagination  could  not  pas* 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  271 

beyond  the  hard  marble  nor  penetrate  the  hidden  mys- 
tery. The  grave  was  speechless  and  empty,  in  the  air 
there  was  nothing  which  spoke  to  the  soul  of  the  painter. 

He  remained  indifferent,  unmoved  by  any  emotion, 
without  ceasing  for  a  single  moment  to  see  reality.  The 
cemetery  was  a  hideous,  gloomy,  repulsive  place,  with 
an  odor  of  decay.  Renovales  thought  he  could  perceive 
a  stench  of  putrefaction  scattered  in  the  wind  which 
bent  the  pointed  tops  of  the  cypresses,  and  swayed  the 
old  wreaths  and  the  branches  of  the  rose  bushes. 

He  looked  at  Cotoner  with  a  sort  of  displeasure.  He 
was  to  blame  for  his  coldness.  His  presence  was  a  check 
on  him  which  prevented  him  from  showing  his  feelings. 
Though  a  friend,  he  was  a  stranger,  an  obstacle  be- 
tween him  and  the  dead.  He  interfered  with  that  silent 
dialogue  of  love  and  forgiveness  of  which  the  master 
had  dreamed  as  he  came.  He  would  come  back  alone. 
Perhaps  the  cemetery  would  be  different  in  solitude. 

And  he  came  back;  he  came  back  the  next  day.  The 
keeper  greeted  him  with  a  smile,  realizing  that  he  was 
a  profitable  visitor. 

The  cemetery  seemed  larger,  more  imposing  in  the 
silence  of  the  bright,  quiet  morning.  He  had  no  one  to 
talk  with-  he  heard  no  human  sound  but  that  of  his 
own  steps.  He  went  up  stairways,  crossed  galleries, 
leaving  behind  him  his  indifference,  thinking  anxiously 
that  every  step  took  him  farther  from  the  living,  that  the 
gate  with  its  greedy  keeper  was  already  far  away  and 
that  he  was  the  only  living  being,  the  only  one  who 
thought  and  could  feel  fear  in  the  mournful  city  of  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  beings,  wrapped  in  a  mys- 
tery which  made  them  imposing  amid  the  strange,  dull 
sounds  of  the  land  beyond  that  terrifies  with  the  black- 
ness of  its  bottomless  abyss. 


272  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

When  he  reached  Josephina's  grave,  he  took  off  his 
hat 

No  one.  The  trees  and  the  rose  bushes  trembled  in 
the  wind  among  the  cross  paths.  Some  birds  were  twit- 
tering above  him  in  an  acacia,  and  the  sound  of  life,  dis- 
turbing the  rustling  of  the  solitary  vegetation,  shed  a 
certain  calm  over  the  painter's  spirit,  blotted  out  the 
childish  fear  he  had  felt  before  he  reached  there,  as  he 
crossed  the  echoing  pavements  of  the  colonnades. 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  motionless,  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  that  marble  case  obliquely  cut  by  a 
ray  of  sunlight,  one  part  golden,  the  other  blue  in  the 
shadow.  Suddenly  he  shivered,  as  if  he  had  awakened 
at  the  sound  of  a  voice, — his  own.  He  was  talking, 
aloud,  driven  to  cry  out  his  thoughts,  to  stir  this  deathly 
silence  with  something  that  meant  life. 

"Josephina.    It  is  I.    Do  you  forgive  me?" 

It  was  a  childish  longing  to  hear  the  voice  from  be- 
yond that  might  pour  on  his  soul  a  balm  of  forgiveness 
and  forgetting;  a  desire  of  humbling  himself,  of  weep- 
ing, of  having  her  listen  to  him,  smile  to  him  from  the 
depth  of  the  void,  at  the  great  revolution  which  had  been 
carried  out  in  his  spirit.  He  wanted  to  tell  her — and  he 
did  tell  her  silently  with  the  speech  of  his  feelings — 
that  he  loved  her,  that  he  had  resuscitated  her  in  his 
thoughts,  now  that  he  had  lost  her  forever,  with  a  love 
which  he  had  never  had  for  her  in  her  earthly  life.  He 
felt  ashamed  before  her  grave ;  ashamed  of  the  difference 
of  their  fates. 

He  begged  her  forgiveness  for  living,  for  still  feeling 
vigorous  and  young,  for  now  loving  her  without  reality, 
in  a  wild  hope,  when  he  had  been  cold  and  indifferent  at 
her  departure,  with  his  thoughts  on  another  woman,  hop- 
ing for  her  death  with  criminal  craving.  Wretch !  And 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  273 

he  was  still  alive !  And  she,  so  kind,  so  sweet,  buried 
forever,  lost  in  the  depths  of  eternal,  ruthless  death! 

He  wept ;  at  last  he  wept  those  hot,  sincere  tears  which 
compel  forgiveness.  It  was  the  weeping  which  he  had  so 
long  desired.  Now  he  felt  that  they  approached  each 
other,  that  they  were  almost  together,  separated  only  by 
a  strip  of  marble  and  a  little  earth.  His  fancy  saw  her 
poor  remains  and  in  their  decay  he  loved  them,  he  wor- 
shiped them  with  a  calm  passion  that  rose  above  earthly 
miseries.  Nothing  which  had  once  been  Josephina's  could 
cause  him  repugnance  or  horror.  If  he  could  but  open 
that  white  case !  If  he  could  kiss  her,  take  her  ashes  with 
him,  that  they  might  go  with  him  on  his  pilgrimage,  like 
the  household  gods  of  the  ancients !  He  no  longer  saw 
the  cemetery,  he  did  not  hear  the  birds  nor  the  rustling  of 
the  branches ;  he  seemed  to  live  in  a  cloud,  looking  only 
at  that  white  grave,  the  marble  slab, — the  last  resting 
place  of  his  beloved. 

She  forgave  him ;  her  body  rose  before  him,  such  as  it 
had  been  in  her  youth,  as  he  had  painted  it.  Her  deep 
eyes  were  fixed  on  his,  eyes  that  shone  with  love.  He 
seemed  to  hear  her  childish  voice  laughing,  admiring  lit- 
tle trifles,  as  in  the  happy  days.  It  was  a  resurrection, — 
the  image  of  the  dead  woman  was  before  him,  formed 
no  doubt  by  the  invisible  atoms  of  her  being  which  floated 
over  her  grave,  by  something  of  the  essence  of  her  life 
which  still  fluttered  around  the  material  remains,  reluctant 
to  say  farewell  before  they  started  on  the  way  that  leads 
to  the  depths  of  the  infinite. 

His  tears  continued  to  fall  in  the  silence,  in  sweet  re- 
lief ;  his  voice,  broken  by  sobs,  stilled  the  birds  with  fear. 
"Josephina!  Josephina!"  And  the  echo  answered  with 
dull,  mocking  cries,  from  the  smooth  walls  of  the  mau- 
soleums, from  the  invisible  end  of  the  colonnades. 

The  artist  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  step  over 


274  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  rusted  chains  which  surrounded  the  grave.  To  feel 
her  nearer !  To  overcome  the  short  distance  which  sepa- 
rated them !  To  mock  death  with  a  loving  kiss  of  intense 
gratitude  for  forgiveness ! 

The  huge  frame  of  the  master  covered  the  slab  of 
marble,  his  arms  encircled  it  as  if  he  would  pick  it  up 
from  the  ground  and  carry  it  away  with  him.  His  lips 
eagerly  sought  the  highest  part  of  the  stone. 

He  wished  to  find  the  spot  which  covered  her  face  and 
he  began  to  kiss  it,  moving  his  head  as  if  he  were  going 
to  dash  it  against  the  marble. 

A  sensation  of  stone,  warmed  by  the  sun,  on  his  lips ; 
a  taste  of  dust,  insipid  and  repulsive  in  his  mouth. 
Renovales  sat  up,  rose  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had  awakened, 
as  if  the  cemetery,  until  then  invisible,  was  suddenly 
restored  to  reality.  The  faint  odor  of  decay  once  more 
struck  him. 

Now  he  saw  the  grave,  as  he  had  seen  it  the  day  before. 
He  no  longer  wept.  The  immense  disappointment  dried 
his  tears,  though  within  him  he  felt  the  longing  for  weep- 
ing increased.  Horrible  awakening!  Josephina  was  not 
there ;  only  the  void  was  about  him.  It  was  useless  to  seek 
the  past  in  the  field  of  death.  Memories  could  not  be 
aroused  in  that  cold  ground,  stirred  by  worms  and  de- 
cay. Oh,  where  had  he  come  to  seek  his  dreams !  From 
what  a  foul  dunghill  he  had  tried  to  raise  the  roses  of  his 
memories ! 

In  fancy  he  saw  her  beneath  that  repugnant  marble  in 
all  the  repulsiveness  of  death,  and  this  vision  left  him 
cold,  indifferent.  What  had  he  to  do  with  such  wretched- 
ness? No;  Josephina  was  not  there.  She  was  truly 
dead,  and  if  he  ever  was  to  see  her  it  would  not  be  beside 
her  grave. 

Once  more  he  wept — not  with  external  tears  but  with- 
in; he  mourned  the  bitterness  of  solitude,  the  inability 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  275 

to  exchange  a  single  thought  with  her.  He  had  so  many 
things  to  tell  her  which  were  burning  his  soul!  How 
he  would  talk  with  her,  if  some  mysterious  power  would 
bring  her  back  for  an  instant.  He  would  implore  her 
forgiveness ;  he  would  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  lament- 
ing the  error  of  his  life,  the  painful  deceit  of  having  re- 
mained beside  her,  indifferent,  fostering  hopes  which  had 
no  fulfillment,  only  to  groan  now  in  the  torment  of  ir- 
reparable loss,  with  a  mad,  thirsting  love  which  wor- 
shiped the  woman  in  death  after  scoring  her  in  life. 

He  would  swear  a  thousand  times  the  truth  of  this 
posthumous  worship,  this  desire  aroused  by  death.  And 
then  he  would  lay  her  once  more  in  her  eternal  bed,  and 
would  depart  in  peace  after  his  wild  confession. 

But  it  was  impossible.  The  silence  between  them 
would  last  forever.  He  must  remain  for  all  eternity 
with  this  confession  of  his  thoughts,  unable  to  tell  it  to 
her,  crushed  beneath  its  weight.  She  had  gone  away 
with  rancor  and  scorn  in  her  soul,  forgetting  their  first 
love,  and  she  would  never  know  that  it  had  blossomed 
once  more  after  her  death. 

She  could  not  cast  one  glance  back ;  she  did  not  exist ; 
she  would  never  again  exist.  All  that  he  was  doing  and 
thinking,  the  sleepless  nights  when  he  called  to  her  in 
loving  appeal,  the  long  hours  when  he  stood  gazing  at  her 
pictures, — all  would  be  unknown  to  her.  And  when  he 
died  in  his  turn,  the  silence  and  loneliness  would  be  still 
greater.  The  things  which  he  had  been  unable  to  tell  her 
would  die  with  him  and  they  would  both  crumble  away 
in  the  earth,  strangers  to  each  other,  prolonging  their 
grievous  error  in  eternity,  unable  to  approach  each  other, 
or  see  each  other,  without  a  saving  word,  condemned  to 
the  fearful,  unbounded  void,  over  whose  limitless  firma- 
ment passed  unnoticed  the  desires  and  griefs  of  men. 

The  unhappy  artist  walked  up  and  down  enraged  at 


276  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

his  impotence.  What  cruelty  surrounded  them?  What 
dark,  hard-hearted,  implacable  mockery  was  that  which 
drove  them  toward  one  another  and  then  separated  them 
forever,  forever!  forbidding  them  to  exchange  a  look  of 
forgiveness,  a  word  to  rectify  their  errors  and  to  permit 
them  to  return  to  their  eternal  sleep  with  new  peace  ? 

Lies — deceit  that  hovers  about  man,  like  a  protecting 
atmosphere  that  shields  him  in  his  path  through  the  void 
of  life.  That  grave  with  its  inscription  was  a  lie;  she 
was  not  there;  it  contained  merely  a  few  remnants,  like 
those  of  all  the  others,  which  no  one  could  recognize, 
not  even  he,  who  had  loved  her  so  dearly. 

His  despair  made  him  lift  his  eyes  to  the  pure,  shin- 
ing sky.  Ah,  the  heavens!  A  lie,  too!  That  heavenly 
blue  with  its  golden  rays  and  fanciful  clouds  was  an  im- 
perceptible film,  an  illusion  of  the  eyes.  Beyond  the 
deceitful  web  which  wraps  the  earth  was  the  true  heaven, 
endless  space,  and  it  was  black,  ominously  obscure,  with 
the  sputtering  spark  of  burning  tears,  of  infinite  worlds, 
little  lamps  of  eternity  in  whose  flame  lived  other  swarms 
of  invisible  atoms,  and  the  icy,  blind,  and  cruel  soul  of 
shadowy  space  laughed  at  their  passions  and  longings, 
at  the  lies  they  fabricated  incessantly  to  protect  their 
ephemeral  existence,  striving  to  prolong  it  with  the  illu- 
sion of  an  immortal  soul. 

All  were  lies  which  death  came  to  unmask,  interrupt- 
ing men's  course  on  the  pleasant  path  of  their  illusions, 
throwing  them  out  of  it  with  as  much  indifference  as 
their  feet  had  crushed  and  driven  to  flight  the  lines  of 
ants  which  advanced  amid  the  grass  that  was  sowed  with 
bony  remains. 

Renovales  was  forced  to  flee.  What  was  he  doing 
there  ?  What  did  that  deserted,  empty  spot  of  earth  mean 
to  him?  Before  he  went  away,  with  the  firm  determina- 
tion not  to  return  again,  he  looked  around  the  grave  for  a 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  277 

flower,  a  few  blades  of  grass,  something  to  take  with  him 
as  a  remembrance.  No,  Josephina  was  not  there ;  he  was 
sure,  but  like  a  lover,  he  felt  that  longing,  that  passionate 
respect  for  anything  which  the  woman  he  loves  had 
touched. 

He  scorned  a  cluster  of  wild-flowers  which  grew  in 
abundance  at  the  foot  of  the  grave.  He  wanted  them 
from  near  the  head  and  he  picked  a  few  white  buds  close 
to  the  cross,  thinking  that  perhaps  their  roots  had  touched 
her  face,  that  they  preserved  in  their  petals  something  of 
her  eyes,  of  her  lips. 

He  went  home  downcast  and  sad,  with  a  void  in  his 
mind  and  death  in  his  soul. 

But  in  the  warm  air  of  the  house,  his  love  came  forth 
to  meet  him;  he  saw  her  beside  him,  smiling  from  the 
walls,  rising  out  of  the  great  canvases.  Renovales  felt  a 
warm  breath  on  his  face,  as  if  those  pictures  were  breath- 
ing at  once,  filling  the  house  with  the  essence  of  memories 
which  seemed  to  float  in  the  atmosphere.  Everything 
spoke  to  him  of  her,  everything  was  filled  with  that  vague 
perfume  of  the  past.  Over  there  on  the  graveyard  hill 
was  the  wretched  perishable  covering.  He  would  not  re- 
turn. What  was  the  use?  He  felt  her  around  him,  all 
that  was  left  of  her  in  the  world  was  enclosed  in  the 
house,  as  the  strong  odor  remains  in  a  broken,  forgotten 
perfume  bottle.  No,  not  in  the  house.  She  was  in  him, 
he  felt  her  presence  within  him,  like  those  wandering 
souls  of  the  legends  who  took  refuge  in  another's  body, 
struggling  to  share  the  dwelling  with  the  soul  which  was 
mistress  of  the  body.  They  had  not  lived  in  vain  so  many 
years  together — at  first  united  by  love  and  afterward  by 
habit.  For  half  a  lifetime,  their  bodies  had  slept  in  close 
contact,  exchanging  through  their  open  pores  that 
warmth  which  is  like  the  breath  of  the  soul.  She  had 
taken  away  a  part  of  the  artist's  life.  In  her  remains, 


278  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

crumbling  in  the  lonely  cemetery,  there  was  a  part  of  the 
master  and  he,  in  turn,  felt  something  strange  and  mys- 
terious which  chained  him  to  her  memory,  which  made 
him  always  long  for  that  body — the  complement  of  his 
own — which  had  already  vanished  in  the  void. 

Renovales  shut  himself  up  in  the  house,  with  a  taciturn 
air  and  a  gloom/  expression  which  terrified  his  valet. 
If  Senor  Cot  oner  came,  he  was  to  tell  him  that  the  mas- 
ter had  gone  out.  If  letters  came  from  the  countess,  hej 
could  leave  them  in  an  old  terra-cotta  jar  in  the  ante- 
room, where  the  neglected  calling  cards  were  piling  up. 
If  it  was  she  who  came,  he  was  to  close  the  door.  He  did 
not  want  anything  to  distract  him.  Dinner  should  be 
served  in  the  studio. 

And  he  worked  alone,  without  a  model,  with  a  tenacity 
which  kept  him  standing  before  the  canvas  until  it  was 
dark.  Sometimes,  when  the  servant  entered  at  nightfall, 
he  found  the  luncheon  untouched  on  the  table.  In  the 
evening  the  master  ate  in  silence  in  the  dining-room, 
from  sheer  animal  necessity,  not  seeing  what  he  was  eat- 
ing, his  eyes  gazing  into  space. 

Cotoner,  somewhat  piqued  at  this  unusual  regime  which 
prevented  him  from  entering  the  studio,  would  call  in  the 
evening  and  try  in  vain  to  interest  him  with  news  of  the 
world  outside.  He  observed  in  the  master's  eyes  a  strange 
light,  a  gleam  of  insanity. 

"How  goes  the  work?" 

Renovales  answered  vaguely.  He  could  see  it  soon — in 
a  few  days. 

His  expression  of  indifference  was  repeated  when  he 
heard  the  Countess  of  Alberca  mentioned.  Cotoner  de- 
scribed her  alarm  and  astonishment  at  the  master's  be- 
havior. She  had  sent  for  him  to  find  out  about  Mariano, 
to  complain,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  of  his  absence.  She 
had  twice  been  to  the  door  of  his  house  and  had  not  been 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  279 

able  to  get  in;  she  complained  of  the  servant  and  that 
mysterious  work.    At  least  he  ought  to  write  to  her,  an- 
swer her  letters,  full  of  tender  laments,  which  she  did  not 
suspect  were  lying  unopened  and  neglected  in  a  pile  of  yel- 
low cards.    The  artist  listened  to  this  with  a  shrug  of  the 
I  shoulders  as  if  he  was  hearing  about  the  sorrows  of  a 
•distant  planet. 

"Let's  go  and  see  Milita,"  he  said.    "There  isn't  any 
opera  to-night." 

In  his  retirement  the  only  thing  which  connected  him 
*  with  the  outside  world  was  his  desire  to  see  his  daugh- 
ter, to  talk  to  her,  as  if  he  loved  her  with  new  affection. 
She  was  his  Josephina's  flesh,  she  had  lived  in  her.    She 
[was  healthy  and  strong,  like  him,  nothing  in  her  appear- 
fence  reminded  him  of  the  other,  but  her  sex  bound  her 
closely  with  the  beloved  image  of  her  mother. 

He  listened  to  Milita  with  smiles  of  pleasure,  grateful 
for  the  interest  she  manifested  in  his  health. 

"Are  you  ill,  papa?     You  look  poorly.     I  don't  like 
your  appearance.    You  are  working  too  much/' 

But  he  calmed  her,  swinging  his  strong  arms,  swelling 
out  his  lusty  chest.  He  had  never  felt  better.  And  with 
the  minuteness  of  a  good-natured  grandfather  he  in- 
quired about  all  the  little  displeasures  of  her  life.  Her 
husband  spent  the  day  with  his  friends.  She  grew  tired 
of  staying  at  home  and  her  only  amusement  was  making 
Rails  or  going  shopping.  And  after  that  came  a  com- 
plaint, always  the  same,  which  the  father  divined  at  her 
first  words.  Lopez  de  Sosa  was  selfish,  niggardly  toward 
her.  His  spendthrift  habits  never  went  beyond  his  own 
pleasures  and  his  own  person ;  he  economized  in  his  wife's 
expenses.  He  loved  her  in  spite  of  that.  Milita  did  not 
venture  to  deny  it ;  no  mistresses  or  unfaithfulness.  She 
would  be  likely  to  stand  that !  But  he  had  no  money  ex- 
cept for  his  horses  and  automobiles;  she  even  suspected 


280  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

that  he  was  gambling,  and  his  poor  wife  lived  without  a 
thing  to  her  back,  and  had  to  weep  her  requests  every  time 
she  received  a  bill,  little  trifles  of  a  thousand  pesetas  or 
two. 

The  father  was  as  generous  to  her  as  a  lover.  He  felt 
like  pouring  at  her  feet  all  that  he  ha'd  piled  up  in  long 
years  of  labor.  She  must  live  in  happiness,  since  she 
loved  her  husband !  Her  worries  made  him  smile  scorn- 
fully. Money!  Josephina's  daughter  sad  because  she 
needed  things,  when  in  his  house  there  were  so  many 
dirty,  insignificant  papers  which  he  had  worked  so  hard 
to  win  and  which  he  now  looked  at  with  indifference! 
He  always  went  away  from  these  visits  amid  hugs  and  a 
shower  of  kisses  from  that  big  girl  who  expressed  her 
joy  by  shaking  him  disrespectfully,  as  if  he  were  a  child. 

"Papa,  dear,  how  good  you  are !    How  I  love  you !" 

One  night  as  he  left  his  daughter's  house  with  Cotoner, 
he  said  mysteriously : 

"Come  in  the  morning,  I  will  show  it  to  you.  It  isn't 
finished  but  I  want  you  to  see  it.  Just  you.  No  one  can 
judge  better."  ^> 

Then  he  added  with  the  satisfaction  of  an  artist: 

"Once  I  could  paint  only  what  I  saw.  Now  I  am  dif- 
ferent. It  has  cost  me  a  good  deal,  but  you  shall  judge." 

And  in  his  voice  there  was  the  joy  of  difficulties  over- 
come, the  certainty  that  he  had  produced  a  great  work. 

Cotoner  came  the  next  day,  with  the  haste  of  curiosity, 
and  entered  the  studio  closed  to  others. 

"Look !"  said  the  master  with  a  proud  gesture. 

His  friend  looked.  Opposite  the  window  was  a  canvas 
on  an  easel ;  a  canvas  for  the  most  part  gray,  and  on  this, 
confused,  interlaced  lines  revealing  some  hesitancy  over 
the  various  contours  of  a  body.  At  one  end  was  a  spot 
of  color,  to  which  the  master  pointed — a  woman's  head 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  281 

which  stood  out  sharply  on  the  rough  background  of  the 
cloth. 

Cotoner  stood  in  silent  contemplation.  Had  the  great 
artist  really  painted  that?  He  did  not  see  the  master's 
hand.  Although  he  was  an  unimportant  painter,  he  had  a 
good  eye,  and  he  saw  in  the  canvas  hesitancy,  fear,  awk- 
wardness, the  struggle  with  something  unreal  which  was 
beyond  his  reach,  which  refused  to  enter  the  mold  of 
form.  He  was  struck  by  the  lack  of  likeness,  by  the 
forced  exaggeration  of  the  strokes ;  the  eyes  unnaturally 
large,  the  tiny  mouth,  almost  a  point,  the  bright  skin  with 
its  supernatural  pallor.  Only  in  the  pupils  of  the  eyes 
was  there  something  remarkable — a  glance  that  came 
from  afar,  an  extraordinary  light  which  seemed  to  pass 
through  the  canvas. 

"It  has  cost  me  a  great  deal.  No  work  ever  made  me 
suffer  so.  This  is  only  the  head;  the  easiest  part.  The 
body  will  come  later;  a  divine  nude,  such  as  has  never 
been  seen.  And  only  you  shall  see  it,  only  you !" 

The  Bohemian  no  longer  looked  at  the  picture.  He 
was  gazing  at  the  master,  astonished  at  the  work,  dis- 
concerted by  its  mystery. 

"You  see,  without  a  model.  Without  the  real  before 
me,"  continued  the  master.  "They  were  all  the  guide  I 
had ;  but  it  is  my  best,  my  supreme  work." 

They  were  all  the  portraits  of  the  dead  woman,  taken 
down  from  the  walls  and  placed  on  easels  or  chairs  in  a 
close  circle  around  the  canvas. 

His  friend  could  not  contain  his  astonishment,  he  could 
not  pretend  any  longer,  overcome  by  surprise. 

"Oh,  but  it  is But  you  have  been  trying  to  paint 

Josephina !" 

Renovales  started  back  violently. 

"Josephina,  yes.  Who  else  should  it  be?  Where  are 
your  eyes?" 


282  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

And  his  angry  glance  flashed  at  Cotoner. 

The  latter  looked  at  the  head  again.  Yes,  it  was  she, 
with  a  beauty  that  was  not  of  this  world, — uncanny, 
spiritualized,  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  new  humanity,  free 
from  coarse  necessities,  in  which  the  last  traces  of  ani- 
mal descent  have  died  out.  He  gazed  at  the  numerous 
portraits  of  other  times  and  recognized  parts  of  them  in 
the  new  work,  but  animated  by  a  light  which  came  from 
within  and  changed  the  value  of  the  colors,  giving  to  the 
face  a  strange  un familiarity. 

"You  recognize  her  at  last !"  said  the  master,  anxiously 
following  the  impressions  of  his  work  in  the  eyes  of  his 
friend.  "Is  it  she?  Tell  me,  don't  you  think  it  is  like 
her?" 

Cotoner  lied  compassionately.  Yes,  it  was  she,  at 
last  he  saw  her  well  enough.  She,  but  more  beautiful 
than  in  life.  Josephina  had  never  looked  like  that. 

Now  it  was  Renovales  who  looked  with  surprise  and 
pity.  Poor  Cotoner!  Unhappy  failure — pariah  of  art, 
who  could  not  rise  above  the  nameless  crowd  and  whose 
only  feeling  was  in  his  stomach!  What  did  he  know 
about  such  things?  What  was  the  use  of  asking  his 
opinion  ? 

He  had  not  recognized  Josephina,  and  nevertheless  this 
canvas  was  his  best  portrait,  the  most  exact. 

Renovales  bore  her  within  him,  he  saw  her  merely  by 
retiring  into  his  thoughts.  No  one  could  know  her  bet- 
ter than  he.  The  rest  had  forgotten  her.  That  was  the 
way  he  saw  her  and  that  was  what  she  had  been. 


IV 


THE  Countess  of  Alberca  succeeded  in  making  her 
way,  one  afternoon,  to  the  master's  studio. 

The  servant  saw  her  arrive  as  usual  in  a  cab,  cross 
the  garden,  come  up  the  steps,  and  enter  the  reception 
room  with  the  hasty  step  of  a  resolute  woman  who  goes 
straight  ahead  without  hesitating.  He  tried  to  block  her 
way  respectfully,  going  from  side  to  side,  meeting  her 
every  time  she  started  to  one  side  to  pass  this  obstacle. 
The  master  was  working!  The  master  was  not  receiv- 
ing callers !  It  was  a  strict  order ;  he  could  not  make  an 
exception!  But  she  continued  ahead  with  a  frown,  a 
flash  of  cold  wrath  in  her  eyes,  an  evident  determination 
to  strike  down  the  servant,  if  it  was  necessary,  and  to  pass 
over  his  body. 

"Come,  my  good  man,  get  out  of  the  way." 

And  her  haughty,  irritated  accent  made  the  poor  ser- 
vant tremble  and  at  a  loss  to  stop  this  invasion  of  rustling 
skirts  and  strong  perfumes.  In  one  of  her  evolutions  the 
fair  lady  ran  into  an  Italian  mosaic  table,  on  the  center 
of  which  was  the  old  jar.  Her  glance  fell  instinctively  to 
the  bottom  of  the  jar. 

It  was  only  an  instant,  but  enough  for  her  woman's 
curiosity  to  recognize  the  blue  envelopes  with  white  bor- 
ders, whose  sealed  ends  stuck  out,  untouched,  from  the 
pile  of  cards.  The  last  straw!  Her  paleness  grew  in- 
tense, almost  greenish,  and  she  started  forward  with  such 
a  rush  that  the  servant  could  not  stop  her  and  was  left 
behind  her,  dejected,  confused,  fearful  of  his  master's 
wrath. 

28* 


284  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Renovales,  alarmed  by  the  sharp  click  of  heels  on 
the  hard  floor,  and  the  rustling  of  skirts,  turned  toward 
the  door  just  as  the  countess  made  her  entrance  with  a 
dramatic  expression. 

"It's  me." 

"You?    You,  dear?" 

Excitement,  surprise,  fear  made  the  master  stammer. N 

"Sit  down/'  he  said  coldly. 

She  sat  down  on  a  couch  and  the  artist  remained  stand- 
ing in  front  of  her. 

They  looked  at  each  other  as  if  they  did  not  recognize 
each  other  after  this  absence  of  weeks  which  weighed 
on  their  memories  as  if  it  were  of  years. 

Renovales  looked  at  her  coldly,  without  tne  least  trem- 
ble of  desire,  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  visitor  whom  he 
must  get  rid  of  as  soon  as  possible.  He  was  surprised 
at  her  greenish  pallor,  at  her  mouth,  drawn  with  irrita- 
tion, at  her  hard  eyes  which  flashed  yellow  flames,  at  her 
nose  which  curved  down  to  her  upper  lip.  She  was 
angry,  but  when  her  eyes  fell  on  him,  they  lost  their 
hardness. 

Her  woman's  instinct  was  calmed  when  she  gazed  at 
him.  He,  too,  looked  different  in  the  carelessness  of  the 
seclusion;  his  hair  tangled,  revealing  the  preoccupation, 
the  fixed,  absorbing  idea,  which  made  him  neglect  the 
neatness  of  his  person. 

Her  jealousy  vanished  instantly,  her  cruel  suspicion 
that  she  would  surprise  him  in  love  with  another  woman, 
with  the  fickleness  of  an  artist.  She  knew  the  external 
evidence  of  love,  the  necessity  a  man  feels  of  making 
himself  attractive,  refining  the  care  of  his  dress. 

She  surveyed  his  neglect  with  satisfaction,  noticing 
his  dirty  clothes,  his  long  fingernails,  stained  with  paint, 
all  the  details  which  revealed  lack  of  tidiness,  forgetful- 
ness  of  his  person.  No  doubt  it  was  a  passing  artist's 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  285 

whim,  a  craze  for  work,  but  they  did  not  reveal  what  she 
had  suspected. 

In  spite  of  this  calming  certainty,  as  Concha  was  ready 
to  shed  the  tears  which  were  all  prepared,  waiting  im- 
patiently on  the  edge  of  her  eyelids,  she  raised  her  hands 
to  her  eyes,  curling  up  on  one  end  of  the  couch,  with  a 
tragic  expression.  She  was  very  unhappy;  she  was  suf- 
fering terribly.  She  had  passed  several  horrible  weeks. 
What  was  the  matter  ?  Why  had  he  disappeared  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  when  she  loved  him  more  than 
ever,  when  she  was  ready  to  give  up  everything,  to  cause 
a  perfect  scandal,  by  coming  to  live  with  him,  as  his  com- 
panion, his  slave  ?  And  her  letters,  her  poor  letters,  neg- 
lected, unopened,  as  if  they  were  annoying  requests  for 
alms.  She  had  spent  the  nights  awake,  putting  her  whole 
soul  into  their  pages!  And  in  her  accent  there  was  a 
tremble  of  literary  pique,  of  bitterness,  that  all  the  pretty 
things,  which  she  wrote  down  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction 
after  long  reflection,  remained  unknown.  Men!  Their 
selfishness  and  cruelty !  How  stupid  women  were  to  wor- 
ship them ! 

She  continued  to  weep  and  Renovales  looked  at  her  as 
if  she  were  another  woman.  She  seemed  ridiculous  to 
him  in  that  grief,  which  distorted  her  face,  which  made 
her  ugly,  destroying  her  smiling,  doll-like  impassibility. 

He  tried  to  offer  excuses,  that  he  might  not  seem  cruel 
by  keeping  silent,  but  they  lacked  warmth  and  the  desire 
to  carry  conviction.  He  was  working  hard ;  it  was  time 
for  him  to  return  to  his  former  life  of  creative  activity. 
She  forgot  that  he  was  an  artist,  a  master  of  some- repu- 
tation, who  had  his  duty  to  the  public.  He  was  not  like 
those  young  fops  who  could  devote  the  whole  day  to  her 
and  pass  their  life  at  her  feet,  like  enamored  pages. 

"We  must  be  serious,  Concha,"  he  added  with  pedantic 
coldness.  "Life  is  not  play.  I  must  work  and  I  am 


286  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

working.  I  haven't  been  out  of  here  for  I  don't  know 
how  many  days." 

She  stood  up  angrily,  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes, 
looked  at  him,  rebuking  him.  He  lied;  he  had  been  out 
and  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  come  to  her  house 
for  a  moment. 

"Just  to  say  'Good  morning/  nothing  more.  So  that  I 
may  see  you  for  an  instant,  Mariano,  long  enough  to  be 
sure  that  you  are  the  same,  that  you  still  love  me.  But 
you  have  gone  out  often ;  you  have  been  seen.  I  have  my 
detectives  who  tell  me  everything.  You  are  too  well 
known  to  pass  unnoticed.  You  have  been  in  the  Museo 
del  Prado  mornings.  You  have  been  seen  gazing  at  a 
picture  of  Goya's,  a  nude,  for  hours  at  a  time,  like  an 
idiot.  Your  hobby  is  coming  back  again,  Mariano!  And 
it  hasn't  occurred  to  you  to  come  and  see  me ;  you  haven't 
answered  my  letters.  You  feel  proud,  it  seems,  content 
with  being  loved,  and  submit  to  being  worshiped  like 
an  idol,  certain  that  the  more  uncivil  you  are,  the  more 
you  will  be  loved.  Oh,  these  men !  These  artists !" 

She  sobbed,  but  her  voice  no  longer  preserved  the  ir- 
ritated tone  of  the  first  few  moments.  The  certainty  that 
she  did  not  have  to  struggle  with  the  influence  of  another 
woman  softened  her  pride,  leaving  in  her  only  the  gentle 
complaint  of  a  victim  who  is  eager  to  sacrifice  herself 
anew. 

"But  sit  down,"  she  exclaimed  amid  her  sobs,  pointing 
to  a  place  on  the  couch  beside  her.  "Don't  stand  up. 
You  look  as  if  you  wanted  me  to  go  away." 

The  painter  sat  down  timidly,  taking  care  not  to  touch 
her,  avoiding  those  hands  which  reached  out  to  him, 
longing  for  a  pretext  to  seize  him.  He  saw  her  desire  to 
weep  on  his  shoulder,  to  forget  everything,  and  to  banish 
her  last  tears  with  a  smile.  That  was  what  always  hap- 
pened, but  Renovales,  knowing  the  game,  drew  back 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  2871 

roughly.  That  must  not  begin  again ;  it  could  not  be  re- 
peated, even  if  he  wanted  to.  He  must  tell  her  the  truth 
at  any  cost,  end  it  forever,  throw  off  the  burden  from 
his  shoulders. 

He  spoke  hoarsely,  stammering,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
floor,  not  daring  to  lift  them  for  fear  of  meeting  Con- 
cha's which  he  felt  were  fixed  upon  him. 

For  several  days  he  had  been  meaning  to  write  to  her. 
He  had  been  afraid  that  he  might  not  express  his  ideas 
clearly  and  so  he  had  put  off  the  letter  until  the  next 
day.  Now  he  was  glad  she  had  come;  he  rejoiced  at  the 
weakness  of  his  valet,  in  letting  her  enter. 

They  must  talk  like  good  comrades  who  examine  the 
future  together.  It  was  time  to  put  an  end  to  their  folly. 
They  would  be  what  Concha  once  desired,  friends — good 
friends.  She  was  beautiful;  she  still  had  the  freshness 
of  youth,  but  time  leaves  its  mark,  and  he  felt  that  he  was 
getting  old;  he  looked  at  life  from  a  height,  as  we  look 
at  the  water  of  a  stream,  without  dipping  into  it. 

Concha  listened  to  him  in  astonishment,  refusing  to 
understand  his  words.  What  did  these  scruples  mean? 
After  some  digressions,  the  painter  spoke  remorsefully 
of  his  friend,  the  Count  of  Alberca,  a  man  whom  he  re- 
spected for  his  very  guilelessness.  His  conscience  rose 
in  protest  at  the  simple  admiration  of  the  good  man. 
This  daring  deceit  in  his  own  house,  under  his  own  roof, 
was  infamous.  He  could  not  go  on;  they  must  purify 
themselves  from  the  past  by  being  good  friends,  must  say 
good-by  as  lovers,  without  spite  or  antipathy,  grateful 
to  each  other  for  the  happy  past,  taking  with  them,  like 
dead  lovers,  their  pleasant  memories. 

Concha's  laugh,  nervous,  sarcastic,  insolent,  interrupted 
the  artist.  Her  cruel  spirit  of  fun  was  aroused  at  the 
thought  that  her  husband  was  the  pretext  of  this  break. 
Her  husband!  And  once  more  she  began  to  laugh  up- 


288  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

roariously,  revealing  the  count's  insignificance,  the  abso- 
lute lack  of  respect  which  he  inspired  in  his  wife,  or  her 
habit  of  adjusting  her  life  as  her  fancy  dictated,  with 
never  a  thought  of  what  that  man  might  say  or  think. 
Her  husband  did  not  exist  for  her ;  she  never  feared  him ; 
she  had  never  thought  that  he  might  serve  as  an  obstacle, 
and  yet  her  lover  spoke  of  him,  presented  him  as  a  jus- 
tification for  leaving  her ! 

"My  husband!"  she  repeated  amid  the  peals  of  her 
cruel  laughter.  ''Poor  thing!  Leave  him  in  peace;  he 
has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  Don't  lie ;  don't  be  a  coward. 
Speak.  You've  something  else  on  your  mind.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is ;  but  I  have  a  presentiment,  I  see  it  from, 
here.  If  you  loved  another  woman!  If  you  loved  an- 
other woman !" 

But  she  broke  off  this  threatening  exclamation.  She 
needed  only  to  look  at  him  to  be  convinced  that  it  was 
impossible.  His  body  was  not  perfumed  with  love; 
everything  about  him  revealed  calm  peace,  without  inter- 
ests or  desires.  Perhaps  it  was  a  whim  of  his  fancy, 
some  unbalanced  caprice  which  led  him  to  repel  her. 
And  encouraged  by  this  belief,  she  relaxed,  forgetting  her 
anger,  speaking  to  him  affectionately,  caressing  him  with 
a  fervor  in  which  there  was  something  at  once  of  the 
mother  and  of  the  mistress. 

Renovales  suddenly  saw  her  beside  him  with  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  burying  her  hands  in  his  tangled  hair. 

She  was  not  proud ;  men  worshiped  her,  but  her  heart, 
her  body,  all  of  her  belonged  to  the  master,  the  ungrateful 
brute,  who  returned  so  ill  her  affection  that  she  was  get- 
ting old  with  her  trouble. 

Suddenly  filled  with  tenderness,  she  kissed  his  fore- 
head generously  and  purely.  Poor  boy !  He  was  work- 
ing so  hard !  The  only  thing  the  matter  was  that  he  was 
tired  out,  distracted  with  too  much  painting.  He  must 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  289 

leave  his  brushes  alone,  live,  love  her,  be  happy,  rest  his 
wrinkled  forehead  behind  which,  like  a  curtain,  an  in- 
visible world  passed  and  repassed  in  perpetual  revolu- 
tion. 

"Let  me  kiss  your  pretty  forehead  again,  so  that  the 
hobgoblins  within  may  be  silent  and  sleep/' 

And  she  kissed  once  more  his  pretty  forehead,  de- 
lighting in  caressing  with  her  lips  the  furrows  and  prom- 
inences of  its  irregular  surface,  rough  as  volcanic 
ground. 

For  a  long  time  her  wheedling  voice,  with  an  exag- 
gerated childish  lisp,  sounded  in  the  silence  of  the  studio. 
She  was  jealous  of  painting,  the  cruel  mistress,  exacting 
and  repugnant,  who  seemed  to  drive  her  poor  baby  mad. 
One  of  these  days,  master,  the  studio  would  catch  on  fire 
together  with  all  its  pictures.  She  tried  to  draw  him  to 
her,  to  make  him  sit  on  her  lap,  so  that  she  might  rock 
him  like  a  child. 

"Look  here,  Mariano,  dear.  Laugh  for  your  Concha. 
Laugh,  you  big  stupid !  Laugh,  or  I'll  whip  you." 

He  laughed,  but  it  was  forced.  He  tried  to  resist  her 
fondling,  tired  of  those  childish  tricks  which  once  were 
his  delight.  He  remained  indifferent  to  those  hands, 
those  lips,  to  the  warmth  of  that  body  which  rubbed 
against  him  without  awakening  the  least  desire.  'And  he 
had  loved  that  woman!  For  her  he  had  committed  the 
terrible,  irreparable  crime  which  would  make  him  drag 
the  chain  of  remorse  forever !  What  surprises  life  has  in 
store ! 

The  painter's  coldness  finally  had  its  effect  on  the  Al- 
berca  woman.  She  seemed  to  awaken  from  the  dream, 
in  which  she  was  lulling  herself.  She  drew  back  from 
her  lover,  and  looked  at  him  fixedly  with  imperious  eyes, 
in  which  a  spark  of  pride  was  once  more  beginning  to 
flash. 


290  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Say  that  you  love  me !    Say  it  at  once !    I  need  it !" 

But  in  vain  did  she  show  her  authority;  in  vain  she 
brought  her  eyes  close  to  him,  as  if  she  wished  to  look 
within  him.  The  artist  smiled  faintly,  murmured  evasive 
words,  refused  to  comply  with  her  demands. 

"Say  it  out  loud,  so  that  I  can  hear  it.  Say  that  you 
love  me.  Call  me  Phryne,  as  you  used  to  when  you  wor- 
shiped me  on  your  knees,  kissing  my  body !" 

He  said  nothing.  He  hung  his  head  in  shame  at  the 
memory,  so  as  not  to  see  her. 

The  countess  stood  up  nervously.  In  her  anger,  she 
drew  back  to  the  middle  of  the  studio,  her  hands  clenched, 
her  lips  quivering,  her  eyes  flashing.  She  wanted  to  de- 
stroy something,  to  fall  on  the  floor  in  a  convulsion.  She 
hesitated  whether  to  break  an  Arabic  amphora  close  by, 
or  to  fall  on  that  bowed  head  and  scratch  it  with  her 
nails.  Wretch!  She  had  loved  him  so  dearly;  she  still 
cared  for  him  so,  feeling  bound  to  him  by  both  vanity  and 
habit ! 

"Say  whether  you  love  me,"  she  cried.  "Say  it  once 
and  for  all !  Yes  or  no  ?" 

Still  she  obtained  no  answer.  The  silence  was  trying. 
Once  more  she  believed  there  was  another  love,  a  woman 
who  had  come  to  occupy  her  place.  But  who  was  it  ? 
Where  could  he  have  found  her?  Her  woman's  instinct 
made  her  turn  her  head  and  glance  into  the  next  studio 
and  beyond  into  the  last,  the  real  workshop  of  the  mas- 
ter. Warned  by  a  mysterious  intuition,  she  started  to 
run  toward  it.  There!  Perhaps  there!  The  painter's 
steps  sounded  behind  her.  He  had  started  from  his  de- 
jection when  he  saw  her  fleeing;  he  followed  her  in  a 
frenzy  of  fear.  Concha  foresaw  that  she  was  going  to 
know  the  truth ;  a  cruel  truth  with  all  the  crudeness  of  a 
discovery  in  broad  daylight.  She  stopped,  scowling  with 
a  mental  effort  before  that  portrait  which  seemed  to  domi- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  291 

nate  the  studio,  occupying  the  best  easel,  in  the  most 
advantageous  position,  in  spite  of  the  solitary  gray  of  its 
canvas. 

The  master  saw  in  Concha's  face  the  same  expression 
of  doubt  and  surprise  which  he  had  seen  in  Cotoner's. 
Who  was  that?  But  the  hesitation  was  shorter;  her 
woman's  pride  sharpened  her  senses.  She  saw  beyond 
that  unrecognizable  head  the  circle  of  older  portraits 
which  seemed  to  guard  it. 

Ah !  The  immense  surprise  in  her  eyes ;  the  cold  as- 
tonishment in  the  glance  she  fixed  on  the  painter  as  she 
surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot ! 

"Is  it  Josephina?" 

He  bowed  his  head  in  mute  assent.  But  his  silence 
seemed  to  him  cowardly;  he  felt  that  he  must  cry  out 
in  the  presence  of  those  canvases,  what  he  had  not  dared 
to  say  outside.  It  was  a  longing  to  flatter  the  dead 
woman,  to  implore  her  forgiveness,  by  confessing  his 
hopeless  love. 

"Yes,  it  is  Josephina." 

And  he  said  it  with  spirit,  going  forward  a  step,  look- 
ing at  Concha  as  if  she  were  an  enemy,  with  a  sort  of 
hostility  in  his  eyes  which  did  not  escape  her  notice. 

They  did  not  say  anything  more.  The  countess  could 
not  speak.  Her  surprise  passed  the  limits  of  the  probable, 
the  known. 

In  love  with  his  wife, — and  after  she  was  dead !  Shut 
up  like  a  hermit  in  order  to  paint  her  with  a  beauty  which 
she  had  never  had.  Life  brings  surprises,  but  this  surely 
had  never  been  seen  before. 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  falling,  falling,  driven  by  aston- 
ishment and,  at  the  end  of  the  fall,  she  found  that  she 
was  changed,  without  a  complaint  or  pang  of  grief. 
Everything  about  her  seemed  strange — the  room,  the  man, 
the  pictures.  This  whole  affair  went  beyond  her  power  of 


292  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

conception.  Had  she  found  a  woman  there,  it  would  have 
made  her  weep  and  shriek  with  grief,  roll  on  the  floor, 
love  the  master  still  more  with  the  stimulus  of  jealousy. 
But  to  find  that  her  rival  was  a  dead  woman !  And  more 
than  that — his  wife!  It  seemed  supremely  ridiculous, 
she  felt  a  mad  desire  to  laugh.  But  she  did  not  laugh. 
She  recalled  the  unusual  expression  she  had  noticed  on 
the  master's  face,  when  she  entered  the  studio;  she 
thought  that  now  she  saw  in  his  eyes  a  spark  of  that  same 
gleam. 

Suddenly  she  felt  afraid ;  afraid  of  the  man  who  looked 
at  her  in  silence  as  if  he  did  not  know  her  and  toward 
whom  she  felt  the  same  strangeness. 

Still  she  had  for  him  a  glance  of  sympathy,  of  that 
tenderness  which  every  woman  feels  in  the  presence  of 
unhappiness,  even  if  it  afflicts  a  stranger.  Poor  Mariano ! 
All  was  over  between  them;  she  took  care  not  to  speak 
intimately  to  him ;  she  held  out  her  gloved  hand  with  the 
gesture  of  an  unapproachable  lady.  For  a  long  time  they 
stood  in  this  position,  speaking  only  with  their  eyes. 

"Good-by,  master;  take  care  of  yourself!  Don't 
bother  to  come  with  me.  I  know  the  way.  Go  on  with 
your  work.  Paint " 

Her  heels  clicked  nervously  on  the  waxed  floor  as  she 
left  the  room,  which  she  was  never  to  enter  again.  The 
swish  of  her  skirts  scattered  their  wake  of  perfumes  in 
the  studio  for  the  last  time. 

Renovales  breathed  more  freely  when  he  was  left 
alone.  He  had  ended  forever  the  error  of  his  life.  The 
only  thing  in  this  visit  that  left  a  sting  was  the  countess's 
hesitation  before  the  portrait.  She  had  recognized  it 
sooner  than  Cotoner,  but  she  too  had  hesitated.  No  one 
remembered  Josephina ;  he  alone  kept  her  image. 

That  same  afternoon,  before  his  old  friend  came,  the 
master  received  another  call.  His  daughter  appeared  in 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  293 

the  studio.  Renovales  had  divined  that  it  was  she  before 
she  entered,  by  the  whirl  of  joy  and  overflowing  life 
which  seemed  to  precede  her. 

She  had  come  to  see  him ;  she  had  promised  him  a  visit 
months  ago.  And  her  father  smiled  indulgently,  recalling 
some  of  her  complaints  when  he  last  visited  her.  Just  to 
see  him? 

Milita  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  examining  the  studio 
which  she  had  not  entered  for  a  long  time. 

"Look !"  she  exclaimed.    "Why,  it's  mamma !" 

She  looked  at  the  picture  with  astonishment,  but  the 
master  seemed  pleased  at  the  readiness  with  which  she 
had  recognized  her.  At  last,  his  daughter !  The  instinct 
of  blood!  The  poor  master  did  not  see  the  hasty  glance 
at  the  other  portraits  which  had  guided  the  girl  in  her 
induction. 

"Do  you  like  it  ?  Is  it  she?"  he  asked  as  anxiously  as  a 
novice. 

Milita  answered  rather  vaguely.  Yes,  it  was  good; 
perhaps  a  little  more  beautiful  than  she  was.  She  never 
knew  her  like  that. 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  master.  "You  never  saw  her 
in  her  good  days.  But  she  was  like  that  before  you  were 
born.  Your  poor  mother  was  very  beautiful." 

But  his  daughter  did  not  manifest  any  great  enthusiasm 
over  the  picture.  It  seemed  strange  to  her.  Why  was 
the  head  at  one  end  of  the  canvas?  What  was  he  going 
to  add  ?  What  did  those  lines  mean  ?  The  master  tried 
to  explain,  almost  blushing,  afraid  to  tell  his  intention 
to  his  daughter,  suddenly  overcome  by  paternal  modesty. 
He  was  not  sure  as  yet  what  he  would  do;  he  had  to 
decide  on  a  dress  to  suit  her.  And  in  a  sudden  access 
of  tenderness,  his  eyes  grew  moist  and  he  kissed  his 
daughter. 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"Do  you  remember  her  well,  Milita?  She  was  very 
good,  wasn't  she  ?" 

His  daughter  felt  infected  by  her  father's  sadness,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  Her  strength,  health  and  joy  of  life 
soon  threw  off  these  sad  impressions.  Yes,  very  good. 
She  often  thought  about  her.  Perhaps  she  spoke  the 
truth;  but  these  memories  were  not  deep  nor  painful. 
Death  seemed  to  her  a  thing  without  meaning,  a  remote 
incident  without  much  terror  which  did  not  disturb  the 
serene  calm  of  her  physical  perfection. 

"Poor  mamma/'  she  added  in  a  forced  tone.  "It  was  a 
relief  for  her  to  go.  Always  sick,  always  sad !  With  such 
a  life  it  is  better  to  die!" 

In  her  words  there  was  a  trace  of  bitterness,  the  mem- 
ory of  her  youth,  spent  with  that  touchy  invalid,  in  an 
atmosphere  made  the  more  unpleasant  by  the  hostile  chill 
with  which  her  parents  treated  each  other.  Besides,  her 
expression  was  icy.  We  all  must  die.  The  weak  must 
go  first  and  leave  their  place  to  the  strong.  It  was  the 
unconscious,  cruel  selfishness  of  health.  Renovales  sud- 
denly saw  his  daughter's  soul  through  this  rent  of  frank- 
ness. The  dead  woman  had  known  them  both.  The 
daughter  was  his,  wholly  his.  He,  too,  possessed  that 
selfishness  in  his  strength  which  had  made  him  crush 
weakness  and  delicacy  placed  under  his  protection.  Poor 
Josephina  had  only  him  left,  repentant  and  adoring.  For 
the  other  people,  she  had  not  passed  through  the  world ; 
not  even  his  daughter  felt  any  lasting  sorrow  at  her 
death. 

Milita  turned  her  back  to  the  portrait.  She  forgot 
her  mother  and  her  father's  work.  An  artist's  hobby! 
She  had  come  for  something  else. 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  almost  in  the  same  way  that 
another  woman  had  sat  down,  a  few  hours  before.  She 
coaxed  him  with  her  rich  voice,  which  took  on  a  sort  of 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  295 

cat-like  purring.  Papa, — papa,  dear, — she  was  very  un- 
happy. She  came  to  see  him,  to  tell  him  her  troubles. 

"Yes,  money,"  said  the  master,  somewhat  annoyed  at 
the  indifference  with  which  she  had  spoken  of  her 
mother. 

"Money,  papa,  you've  said  it ;  I  told  you  the  other  day. 
But  that  isn't  all.  Rafael — my  husband — I  can't  stand 
this  sort  of  life." 

And  she  related  all  the  petty  trials  of  her  existence. 
In  order  not  to  feel  that  she  was  prematurely  a  widow, 
she  had  to  go  with  her  husband  in  his  automobile  and 
show  an  interest  in  his  trips  which  once  had  amused  her 
but  now  were  growing  unbearable. 

"It's  the  life  of  a  section-hand,  papa,  always  swallow- 
ing dust  and  counting  kilometers.  When  I  love  Madrid 
so  much !  When  I  can't  live  out  of  it !" 

She  had  sat  down  on  her  father's  knees,  she  talked  to 
him,  looking  into  his  eyes,  smoothing  his  hair,  pulling 
his  mustache,  like  a  mischievous  child, — almost  as  the 
other  had. 

"Besides,  he's  stingy ;  if  he  had  his  way,  I'd  look  like  a 
frump.  He  thinks  everything  is  too  much.  Papa,  help 
me  out  of  this  difficulty,  it's  only  two  thousand  pesetas. 
With  that  I  can  get  on  my  feet5  and  then  I  won't  bother 
you  with  any  more  loans.  Come,  that's  a  dear  papa.  I 
need  them  right  away,  because  I  waited  till  the  last  min- 
ute, so  as  not  to  inconvenience  you." 

Renovales  moved  about  uneasily  under  the  weight  of 
his  daughter,  a  strapping  girl  who  fell  on  him  like  a  child. 
Her  filial  confidences  annoyed  him.  Her  perfume  made 
him  think  of  that  other  perfume,  which  disturbed  his 
nights,  spreading  through  the  solitude  of  the  rooms.  She 
seemed  to  have  inherited  her  mother's  flesh. 

He  pushed  her  away  roughly,  and  she  took  this  move- 
ment for  a  refusal.  Her  face  grew  sad,  tears  came  to 


296  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

her  eyes,  and  her  father  repented  his  brusqueness.  He 
was  surprised  at  her  constant  requests  for  money.  What 
did  she  want  it  for?  He  recalled  the  wedding-presents, 
that  princely  abundance  of  clothes  and  jewels  which  had 
been  on  exhibition  in  this  very  room.  What  did  she  need  ? 
But  Milita  looked  at  her  father  in  astonishment.  More 
than  a  year  had  gone  by  since  then.  It  was  clear  enough 
that  her  father  was  ignorant  in  such  matters.  Was  she 
going  to  wear  the  same  gowns,  the  same  hats,  the  same 
ornaments  for  an  endless  length  of  time,  more  than 
twelve  months  ?  Horrible !  That  was  too  commonplace. 
And  overcome  at  the  thought  of  such  a  monstrosity,  she 
began  to  shed  her  tender  tears  to  the  great  disturbance 
of  the  master. 

"There,  there,  Milita,  there's  no  use  in  crying.  What 
do  you  want?  Money?  I'll  send  you  all  you  need  to- 
morrow. I  haven't  much  at  the  house.  I  shall  have  to  get 
it  at  the  bank — operations  you  don't  understand." 

But  Milita,  encouraged  by  her  victory,  insisted  on -her 
request  with  desperate  obstinacy.  He  was  deceiving  her ; 
he  would  not  remember  it  the  next  day;  she  knew  her 
father.  Besides,  she  needed  the  money  at  once, — her 
honor  was  at  stake  (she  declared  it  seriously)  if  her 
friends  discovered  that  she  was  in  debt. 

"This  very  minute,  papa.  Don't  be  horrid.  Don't 
amuse  yourself  by  making  me  worry.  You  must  have 
money,  lots  of  it,  perhaps  you  have  it  on  you.  Let's  see, 
you  naughty  papa,  let  me  search  your  pockets,  let  me  look 
at  your  wallet.  Don't  say  no ;  you  have  it  with  you.  You 
have  it  with  you !" 

She  plunged  her  hands  in  her  father's  breast,  unbutton- 
ing his  working  jacket,  tickling  him  to  get  at  the  inside 
pocket.  Renovales  resisted  feebly.  "You  foolish  girl. 
You're  wasting  your  time.  Where  do  you  think  the  wal- 
let is  ?  I  never  carry  it  in  this  suit." 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  297 

"It's  here,  you  fibber,"  his  daughter  cried  merrily,  per- 
sisting in  her  search.  "I  feel  it!  I  have  it!  Look  at 
it!" 

She  was  right.  The  painter  had  forgotten  that  he  had 
picked  it  up  that  morning  to  pay  a  bill  and  then  had  put  it 
absent-mindedly  in  the  pocket  of  his  serge  coat. 

Milita  opened  it  with  a  greediness  that  hurt  her  father. 
Oh,  those  woman's  hands,  trembling  in  the  search  for 
money !  He  grew  calmer  when  he  thought  of  the  fortune 
he  had  amassed,  of  the  different  colored  papers  which  he 
kept  in  his  desk.  All  would  be  his  daughter's  and  per- 
haps this  would  save  her  from  the  danger  toward  which 
her  longing  to  live  amid  the  vanities  and  tinsel  of  femi- 
nine slavery  was  leading  her. 

In  an  instant  she  had  her  hands  on  a  number  of  bills 
of  different  denominations,  forming  a  roll  which  she 
squeezed  tight  between  her  fingers. 

Renovales  protested. 

"Let  me  have  it,  Milita,  don't  be  childish.  You're  leav- 
ing me  without  a  cent.  I'll  send  it  to  you  to-morrow ;  give 
it  up  now.  It's  robbery." 

She  avoided  him ;  she  had  stood  up ;  she  kept  at  a  dis- 
tance, raising  her  hand  above  her  hat  to  save  her  booty. 
She  laughed  boisterously  at  her  trick.  She  did  not  mean 
to  give  him  back  a  single  one!  She  did  not  know  how 
many  there  were,  she  would  count  them  at  home,  she 
would  be  out  of  difficulty  for  the  nonce,  and  the  next 
day  she  would  ask  him  for  what  was  lacking. 

The  master  finally  began  to  laugh,  finding  her  merri- 
ment contagious.  He  chased  Milita  without  trying  to 
catch  her;  he  threatened  her  with  mock  severity,  called 
her  a  robber,  shouting  "help,"  and  so  they  ran  from  one 
studio  to  another.  Before  she  disappeared,  Milita 
stopped  on  the  last  doorsill,  raising  her  gloved  finger 
authoritatively : 


298  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

"To-morrow,  the  rest.  You  mustn't  forget.  Really, 
papa,  this  is  very  important.  Good-by;  I  shall  expect 
you  to-morrow." 

And  she  disappeared,  leaving  in  her  father  some  of  the 
merriment  with  which  they  had  chased  each  other. 

The  twilight  was  gloomy.  Renovales  sat  in  front  of  his 
wife's  portrait,  gazing  at  that  extravagantly  beautiful 
head  which  seemed  to  him  the  most  faithful  of  his  por- 
traits. His  thoughts  were  lost  in  the  shadow  which  rose 
from  the  corners  and  enveloped  the  canvases.  Only  on 
the  windows  trembled  a  pale,  hazy  light,  cut  across  by 
the  black  lines  of  the  branches  outside. 

Alone — alone  forever.  He  had  the  affection  of  that 
big  girl  who  had  just  gone  away,  merry,  indifferent  to 
everything  which  did  not  flatter  her  youthful  vanity,  her 
healthy  beauty.  He  had  the  devotion  of  his  friend  Co- 
toner,  who,  like  an  old  dog,  could  not  live  without  seeing 
him,  but  was  incapable  of  wholly  devoting  his  life  to  him, 
and  shared  it  between  him  and  other  friends,  jealous  of 
his  Bohemian  freedom. 

And  that  was  all.    Very  little. 

On  the  verge  of  old  age,  he  gazed  at  a  cruel,  reddish 
light  which  seemed  to  irritate  his  eyes;  the  solitary, 
monotonous  road  which  awaited  him — and  at  the  end, 
death !  No  one  was  ignorant  of  that ;  it  was  the  only 
certainty,  and  still  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
without  thinking  of  it,  without  seeing  it. 

It  was  like  one  of  those  epidemics  in  distant  lands 
which  destroy  millions  of  lives.  People  talk  of  it  as  of  a 
definite  fact,  but  without  a  start  of  horror,  or  a  tremble  of 
fear.  "It  is  too  far  away ;  it  will  take  it  a  long  time  to 
reach  us." 

He  had  often  named  Death,  but  with  his  lips;  his 
thoughts  had  not  grasped  the  meaning  of  the  word,  feel- 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  299 

ing  that  he  was  alive,  bound  to  life  by  his  dreams  and 
desires. 

Death  stood  at  the  end  of  the  road ;  no  one  could  avoid 
meeting  it,  but  all  are  long  in  seeing  it.  Ambition,  desire, 
love,  the  cruel  animal  needs  distracted  man  in  his  course 
toward  it ;  they  were  like  the  woods,  valleys,  blue  sky  and 
winding  crystal  streams  which  diverted  the  traveler,  hid- 
ing the  boundary  of  the  landscape,  the  fatal  goal,  the 
black  bottomless  gorge  to  which  all  roads  lead. 

He  was  on  the  last  days'  march.  The  path  of  his  life 
was  growing  desolate  and  gloomy;  the  vegetation  was 
dwindling;  the  great  groves  diminished  into  sparse,  mis- 
erable lichens.  From  the  murky  abyss  came  an  icy 
breath;  he  saw  it  in  the  distance,  he  walked  without 
escape  toward  its  gorge.  The  fields  of  dreams  with  their 
sunlit  heights  which  once  bounded  the  horizon,  were  left 
behind  and  it  was  impossible  to  return.  In  this  path  no 
one  retraced  his  steps. 

He  had  wasted  half  his  life,  struggling  for  wealth  and 
fame,  hoping  sometimes  to  receive  their  revenues  in  the 
pleasures  of  love.  Die!  Who  thought  of  that?  Then 
it  was  a  remote,  unmeaning  threat.  He  believed  that  he 
was  provided  with  a  mission  by  Providence.  Death 
would  take  no  liberties  with  him,  would  not  come  till  his 
work  was  finished.  He  still  had  many  things  to  do.  Well, 
all  was  done  now ;  human  desires  did  not  exist  for  him. 
He  had  everything.  No  longer  did  fanciful  towers  rise 
before  his  steps,  for  him  to  assault.  On  the  horizon,  free 
from  obstacles,  appeared  the  great  forgotten, — Death. 

He  did  not  want  to  see  it.  There  was  still  a  long  jour- 
ney on  that  road  which  might  grow  longer  and  longer, 
according  to  the  strength  of  the  traveler,  and  his  legs  were 
still  strong. 

But,  ah,  to  walk,  walk,  year  after  year,  with  his  gaze 
fixed  on  that  murky  abyss,  contemplating  it  always  at 


300  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

the  edge  of  the  horizon,  unable  to  escape  for  an  instant 
the  certainty  that  it  was  there,  was  a  superhuman  torture 
which  would  force  him  to  hurry  his  steps,  to  run  in  order 
to  reach  the  end  as  soon  as  possible.  Oh,  for  deceitful 
clouds  which  might  veil  the  horizon,  concealing  the  reality 
which  embitters  our  bread,  which  casts  its  shadows  over 
our  souls  and  makes  us  curse  the  futility  of  our  birth! 
Oh,  for  lying,  pleasant  illusions  to  make  a  paradise  rise 
from  the  desert  shadows  of  the  last  journey!  Oh,  for 
dreams ! 

And  in  his  mind  the  poor  master  enlarged  the  last 
fancy  of  his  desire;  he  connected  with  the  beloved  like- 
ness of  his  dead  wife  all  the  flights  of  his  imagination, 
longing  to  infuse  into  it  new  life  with  a  part  of  his  own. 
He  piled  up  by  handfuls  the  clay  of  the  past,  the  mass 
of  memory,  to  make  it  greater  that  it  might  occupy  the 
whole  way,  shut  off  the  horizon  like  a  huge  hill,  hide  till 
the  last  moment  the  murky  abyss  which  ended  the  jour- 
ney. 


RENOVALES'  behavior  was  a  source  of  surprise  and  even 
scandal  for  all  his  friends. 

The  Countess  of  Alberca  took  especial  care  to  let  every- 
one know  that  her  only  relation  with  the  painter  was  a 
friendship  which  grew  constantly  colder  and  more  for- 
mal. 

"He's  crazy,"  she  said.  "He's  finished.  There's  noth- 
ing left  of  him  but  a  memory  of  what  he  once  was." 

Cotoner  in  his  unswerving  friendship  was  indignant  at 
hearing  such  comment  on  the  famous  master. 

"He  isn't  drinking.  All  that  people  say  about  him  is  a 
lie ;  the  usual  legend  about  a  celebrated  man." 

He  had  his  own  ideas  about  Mariano;  he  knew  his 
longing  for  a  stirring  life,  his  desire  to  imitate  the  habits 
of  youth  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  thirst  for  all  the 
mysteries  which  he  fancied  were  hidden  in  this  evil  life, 
of  which  he  had  heard  without  ever  daring  till  then  to 
join  in  them. 

Cotoner  accepted  the  master's  new  habits  indulgently. 
Poor  fellow! 

"You  are  putting  into  action  the  pictures  of  'The 
Rake's  Progress,' "  he  said  to  his  friend.  "You're  going 
the  way  of  all  virtuous  men  when  they  cease  to  be  so,  on 
the  verge  of  old  age.  You  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself, 
Mariano." 

But  his  loyalty  led  him  to  acquiesce  in  the  new  life  of 
the  master.  At  last  he  had  given  in  to  his  requests  and 
had  come  to  live  with  him.  With  his  few  pieces  of  lug- 
gage he  occupied  a  room  in  the  house  and  cared  for 

301 


302  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

Renovales  with  almost  paternal  solicitude.  The  Bohe- 
mian showed  great  sympathy  for  him.  It  was  the  same 
old  story:  "He  who  does  not  do  it  at  the  beginning 
does  it  at  the  end,"  and  Renovales,  after  a  life  of  hard 
work,  was  rushing  into  a  life  of  dissipation  with  the 
blindness  of  a  youth,  admiring  vulgar  pleasures,  cloth- 
ing them  with  the  most  fanciful  seductions. 

Cotoner  frequently  harassed  him  with  complaints. 
What  had  he  brought  him  to  live  at  his  house  for?  He 
deserted  him  for  days  at  a  time;  he  wanted  to  go  out 
alone ;  he  left  him  at  home  like  a  trusty  steward.  The  old 
Bohemian  posted  himself  minutely  on  his  life.  Often  the 
students  in  the  Art  School,  gathered  at  nightfall  beside 
the  entrance  to  the  Academy,  saw  him  going  down  the 
Calle  de  Alcala,  muffled  in  his  cloak  with  an  affected  air 
of  mystery  that  attracted  attention. 

"There  goes  Renovales.  That  one,  the  one  in  the 
cloak." 

And  they  followed  him  out  of  curiosity — in  his  com- 
ings and  goings  through  the  broad  street  where  he  circled 
about  like  a  silent  dove  as  if  he  were  waiting  for  some- 
thing. Sometimes,  no  doubt  tired  of  these  evolutions,  he 
went  into  a  cafe  and  the  curious  admirers  followed  him, 
pressing  their  faces  against  the  window-panes.  They 
saw  him  drop  into  a  chair,  looking  vaguely  at  the  glass 
before  him;  always  the  same  thing:  brandy.  Suddenly 
he  would  drink  it  at  one  gulp,  pay  the  waiter  and  go  out, 
with  the  haste  of  one  who  has  swallowed  a  drug.  And 
once  more  he  would  begin  his  explorations,  peering  with 
greedy  eyes  at  all  the  women  who  passed  alone,  turning 
around  to  follow  the  course  of  run-down  heels,  the  flutter 
of  dark  and  mud-splashed  skirts.  At  last  he  would  start 
with  sudden  determination,  he  would  disappear  almost 
on  the  heel  of  some  woman  always  of  the  same  appear- 
ance. The  boys  knew  the  great  artist's  preference :  little, 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  303 

weak,  sickly  women,  graceful  as  faded  flowers,  with  large 
eyes,  dull  and  sorrowful. 

A  story  of  strange  mental  aberration  was  forming 
about  him.  His  enemies  repeated  it  in  the  studios;  the 
throng  which  cannot  imagine  that  celebrated  men  lead 
the  same  life  as  other  people,  and  like  to  think  that  they 
are  capricious,  tormented  by  extraordinary  habits,  began 
to  talk  with  delight  about  the  hobby  of  the  painter  Reno- 
vales. 

In  all  the  houses  of  prostitution,  from  the  middle  class 
apartments,  scattered  in  the  most  respectable  streets,  to 
the  damp,  ill-smelling  dens  which  cast  out  their  wares 
at  night  on  the  Calle  de  Peligros,  circulated  the  story  of 
a  certain  gentleman,  provoking  shouts  of  laughter.  He 
always  came  muffled  up  mysteriously,  following  hastily 
the  rustle  of  some  poor  starched  skirts  which  preceded 
him.  He  entered  the  dark  doorway  with  a  sort  of  terror, 
climbed  the  winding  staircase  which  seemed  to  smell  o£ 
the  residues  of  life,  hastened  the  disrobing  with  eager 
hands,  as  if  he  had  no  time  to  waste,  as  if  he  was  afraid 
of  dying  before  he  realized  his  desire,  and  all  at  once 
the  poor  women  who  looked  askance  at  his  feverish 
silence  and  the  savage  hunger  which  shone  in  his  eyes, 
were  tempted  to  laugh,  seeing  him  drop  dejectedly  into  a 
chair  in  silence,  unmindful  of  the  brutal  words  which  they 
in  their  astonishment  hurled  at  him ;  without  paying  any 
attention  to  their  gestures  and  invitations,  not  coming 
out  of  his  stupor  till  the  woman,  cold  and  somewhat  of- 
fended, started  to  put  on  her  clothes.  "One  moment 
more."'  This  scene  almost  always  ended  with  an  expres- 
sion of  disgust,  of  bitter  disappointment.  Sometimes  the 
poor  puppets  of  flesh  thought  they  saw  in  his  eyes  a  sor- 
rowful expression,  as  if  he  were  going  to  weep.  Then  he 
fled  precipitously,  hidden  under  his  cloak  in  sudden 
shame,  with  the  firm  determination  not  to  return,  to  resist 


304  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

that  demon  of  hungry  curiosity  which  dwelt  within  him 
and  could  not  see  a  woman's  form  in  the  street,  without 
feeling  a  violent  desire  to  disrobe  it. 

These  stories  came  to  Cotoner's  ears.  Mariano! 
Mariano!  He  did  not  dare  to  rebuke  him  openly  for 
these  shameful  nocturnal  adventures;  he  was  afraid  of 
a  violent  explosion  of  anger  on  the  part  of  the  master. 
He  must  direct  him  prudently.  But  what  most  aroused 
his  old  friend's  censure  was  the  people  with  whom  the 
artist  associated. 

This  false  rejuvenation  made  him  seek  the  company  of 
the  younger  men  and  Cotoner  cursed  roundly  when  at  the 
close  of  the  theater  he  found  him  in  a  cafe,  surrounded 
by  his  new  comrades,  all  of  whom  might  be  his  sons. 
Most  of  them  were  painters,  novices,  some  with  consider- 
able talent,  others  whose  only  merit  was  their  evil  tongue, 
all  of  them  proud  of  their  friendship  with  the  famous 
man,  delighting  like  pigmies  in  treating  him  as  an  equal, 
jesting  over  his  weaknesses.  Great  Heavens!  Some  of 
the  bolder  even  went  so  far  as  to  call  him  by  his  first 
name,  treating  him  like  a  glorious  failure,  presuming  to 
make  comparisons  between  his  paintings  and  what  they 
would  do  when  they  could.  "Mariano,  art  moves  in  dif- 
ferent paths,  now." 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself !"  Cotoner  would  ex- 
claim. "You  look  like  a  schoolmaster  surrounded  by 
children.  You  ought  to  be  spanked.  A  man  like  you 
tolerating  the  insolence  of  those  shabby  fellows !" 

Renovales'  good  nature  was  unshaken.  They  were 
very  interesting ;  they  amused  him ;  he  found  in  them  the 
joy  of  youth.  They  went  together  to  the  theaters  and 
music  halls,  they  knew  women;  they  knew  where  the 
good  models  were ;  with  them  he  could  enter  many  places 
where  he  would  not  venture  to  go  alone.  His  years  and 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  305 

ugliness  passed  unnoticed  amid  that  youthful  merry 
crowd. 

"They  are  of  service  to  me,"  the  poor  man  said  with  a 
sly  wink.  "I  am  amused  and  they  tell  me  lots  of  things. 
Besides,  this  isn't  Rome ;  there  are  hardly  any  models ;  it 
is  very  difficult  to  find  them  and  these  boys  are  my 
guides." 

And  he  went  on  to  speak  of  his  great  artistic  plans, 
of  that  picture  of  Phryne,  with  her  divine  nakedness, 
which  had  once  more  risen  in  his  mind,  of  the  beloved 
portrait  which  was  still  in  the  same  condition  as  his 
brush  had  left  it  when  he  finished  the  head. 

He  was  not  working.  His  old  energy,  which  had  made 
painting  a  necessary  element  in  his  life,  now  found  vent 
in  words,  in  the  desire  to  see  everything,  to  know  "new 
phases  of  life." 

Soldevilla,  his  favorite  pupil,  found  himself  a  target 
for  the  master's  questions  when  he  appeared  at  rare  in- 
tervals in  the  studio. 

"You  must  know  good  women,  Soldevilla :  You  have 
been  around  a  great  deal  in  spite  of  that  angel  face  of 
yours.  You  must  take  me  with  you.  You  must  intro- 
duce me." 

"Master!"  the  youth  would  exclaim  in  surprise,  "it 
isn't  yet  six  months  since  I  was  married !  I  never  go  out 
at  night !  How  you  joke !" 

Renovales  answered  with  a  scornful  glance.  A  fine 
life!  No  youth,  no  joy!  He  spent  all  his  money  on 
variegated  waistcoats  and  high  collars.  What  a  perfect 
ant!  He  had  married  a  rich  woman,  since  he  couldn't 
catch  the  master's  daughter.  Besides,  he  was  an  ungrate- 
ful scamp.  Now  he  was  joining  the  master's  enemies, 
convinced  that  he  could  get  nothing  more  out  of  him.  He 
scorned  him.  It  was  too  bad  that  his  protection  had 
caused  him  so  much  inconvenience!  He  was  no  artist. 


'306  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

And  the  master  went  back  with  new  affection  to  his 
companions,  those  merry  youths,  slandering  and  disre- 
spectful as  they  were.  He  recognized  talent  in  them  all. 

The  gossip  about  his  extraordinary  life  reached  even 
his  daughter,  with  the  rapid  spread  which  anything  prej- 
udicial to  a  famous  man  acquires. 

Milita  scowled,  trying  to  restrain  the  laughter  which 
the  strangeness  of  this  change  aroused.  Her  father  be- 
coming a  rake ! 

"Papa!  Papa!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  comic  tone  of  re- 
proach. 

And  papa  made  excuses  like  a  naughty,  hypocritical 
little  boy,  increasing  by  his  perturbation  his  daughter's 
desire  to  laugh. 

Lopez  de  Sosa  seemed  inclined  to  be  indulgent  toward 
his  father-in-law.  Poor  old  gentleman!  All  his  life 
working,  with  a  sick  wife,  who  was  very  good  and  kind, 
to  be  sure,  but  who  had  embittered  his  life!  She  did 
well  to  die,  and  the  artist  did  quite  as  well  in  making  up 
for  the  time  he  had  lost. 

With  the  instinctive  freemasonry  of  all  those  who  lead 
an  easy,  merry  life,  the  sport  defended  his  father-in-law, 
supported  him,  found  him  more  attractive,  more  con- 
genial, as  a  result  of  his  new  habits.  A  man  must  not 
always  stay  shut  up  in  his  studio  with  the  irritated  air  of 
a  prophet,  talking  about  things  which  nobody  would 
understand. 

They  met  each  other  in  the  evening  during  the  last  acts 
at  the  theaters  and  music  halls,  when  the  songs  and 
dances  were  accompanied  by  the  audience  with  a  storm  of 
cries  and  stamping.  They  greeted  each  other,  the  father 
inquired  for  Milita,  they  smiled  with  the  sympathy  of  two 
good  fellows  and  each  went  back  to  his  group;  the  son- 
in-law  to  his  club-mates  in  a  box,  still  wearing  the  dress 
suits  of  the  respectable  gatherings  from  which  they  came 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  307 

— the  painter  to  the  orchestra  seats  with  the  long-haired 
young  fellows  who  were  his  escort. 

Renovales  was  gratified  to  see  Lopez  de  Sosa  greeting 
the  most  fashionable,  highest-priced  cocottes  and  smiling 
to  comic-opera  stars  with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  friend. 

That  boy  had  excellent  connections,  and  he  regarded 
this  as  an  indirect  honor  to  his  position  as  a  father. 

Cotoner  frequently  found  himself  dragged  out  of  his 
orbit  of  serious,  substantial  dinners  and  evening-parties, 
which  he  continued  to  frequent  in  order  not  to  lose  his 
friendships  which  were  his  only  source  of  income. 

"You  are  coming  with  me  to-night,"  the  master  would 
say  mysteriously.  "We  will  dine  wherever  you  like,  and 
afterwards  I  will  show  you  something." 

And  he  took  him  to  the  theater  where  he  sat  restless 
and  impatient  until  the  chorus  came  on  the  stage.  Then 
he  would  nudge  Cotoner,  who  was  sunk  in  his  seat,  with 
his  eyes  wide  open,  but  asleep  inside,  in  the  sweet  pleasure 
of  good  digestion. 

"Listen,  look !  the  third  from  the  right,  the  little  girl — 
the  one  in  the  yellow  shawl !" 

"I  see  her.  What  about  her?"  said  his  friend  in  a 
sour  voice. 

"Look  at  her  closely.  Who  does  she  look  like?  Who 
does  she  remind  you  of  ?" 

Cotoner  answered  with  a  grunt  of  indifference.  She 
probably  looked  like  her  mother.  What  did  he  care  about 
such  resemblances.  But  his  astonishment  aroused  him 
from  his  quiet  when  he  heard  Renovales  say  he  thought 
her  a  rare  likeness  of  his  wife,  and  was  indignant  at  him 
because  he  did  not  recognize  it. 

"Why,  Mariano,  where  are  your  eyes?"  he  exclaimed 
with  no  less  sourness.  "What  resemblance  is  there  be- 
tween that  scraggly  girl  with  her  starved  face  and  your 
poor,  dead  wife.  If  you  see  a  sorry-looking  bean  pole  you 


308  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

will  give  it  a  name,  Josephina, — and  there's  nothing  more 
to  say." 

Although  Renovales  was  at  first  irritated  at  his  friend's 
blindness,  he  was  finally  convinced.  He  had  probably  de- 
ceived himself,  as  long  as  Cotoner  did  not  find  the  like- 
ness. He  must  remember  the  dead  woman  better  than  he 
himself ;  love  did  not  disturb  his  memory. 

But  a  few  days  later  he  would  once  more  besiege 
Cotoner  with  a  mysterious  air.  "I  have  something  to 
show  you."  And  leaving  the  company  of  the  merry  lads 
who  annoyed  his  old  friend,  he  would  take  him  to  a  music 
hall  and  point  out  another  scandalous  woman  who  was 
kicking  a  fling  or  doing  a  danse  du  venire,  and  revealed 
her  anemic  emaciation  under  a  mask  of  rouge. 

"How  about  this  one?"  the  master  would  implore,  al- 
most in  terror  as  if  he  doubted  his  own  eyes.  "Don't 
you  think  she  looks  something  like  her?  Doesn't  she 
remind  you  of  her?" 

His  friend  broke  out  angrily: 

"You're  crazy.  What  likeness  is  there  between  that 
poor  little  woman,  so  good,  so  sweet  and  so  refined,  and 
this  low  creature?" 

Renovales,  after  several  failures  which  made  him  doubt 
the  accuracy  of  his  memory,  did  not  dare  to  consult  his 
friend.  As  soon  as  he  tried  to  take  him  to  a  new  show, 
Cotoner  would  draw  back. 

"Another  discovery?  Come,  Mariano,  get  these  ideas 
out  of  your  head.  If  people  found  out  about  it,  they 
would  think  that  you  were  crazy." 

But  defying  his  wrath,  the  master  insisted  one  evening 
with  great  obstinacy  that  he  must  go  with  him  to  see  the 
"Bella  Fregolina,"  a  Spanish  girl,  who  was  singing  at  a 
little  theater  in  the  low  quarter,  and  whose  name  was  dis- 
played in  letters  a  meter  high  in  the  shop  windows  of 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  309 

Madrid.  He  had  spent  more  than  two  weeks  watching 
her  every  evening. 

"I  must  have  you  see  her,  Pepe.  Just  for  a  minute. 
I  beg  you.  I  am  sure  that  this  time  you  won't  say  that  I 
am  mistaken." 

Cotoner  gave  in,  persuaded  by  the  imploring  tone  of  his 
friend.  They  waited  for  the  appearance  of  the  "Bella 
Fregolina"  for  a  long  time,  watching  dances  and  listen- 
ing to  songs  accompanied  by  the  howls  of  the  audience. 
The  wonder  was  reserved  till  the  last.  At  last,  with  a  sort 
of  solemnity,  amid  a  murmur  of  expectation,  the  orches- 
tra began  to  play  a  piece  well  known  to  all  the  admirers 
of  the  "star,"  a  ray  of  rosy  light  crossed  the  little 
stage  and  the  "Bella"  entered. 

She  was  a  slight  little  girl,  so  thin  that  she  was  almost 
emaciated.  Her  face,  of  a  sweet  melancholy  beauty,  was 
the  most  striking  thing  about  her.  Beneath  her  black 
dress,  covered  with  silver  threads,  which  spread  out  like 
a  broad  bell,  you  could  see  her  slender  legs,  so  thin  that 
the  flesh  seemed  hardly  to  cover  the  bones.  Above  the 
lace  of  her  gown  her  skin,  painted  white,  marked  the 
slight  curve  of  her  breasts  and  the  prominent  collar 
bones.  The  first  thing  you  saw  about  her  were  her  eyes, 
large,  clear,  and  girlish,  but  the  eyes  of  a  depraved  girl, 
in  which  a  licentious  expression  flickered,  without,  how- 
ever, hurting  their  pure  surface.  She  moved  like  an  over- 
grown schoolgirl,  arms  akimbo,  bashful  and  blushing  and 
in  this  position  she  sang  in  a  thin,  high  voice,  obscene 
verses  which  contrasted  strangely  with  her  apparent  tim- 
idity. This  was  her  charm  and  the  audience  received 
her  atrocious  words  with  roars  of  delight,  contenting1 
themselves  with  this,  without  demanding  that  she  dance, 
respecting  her  hieratic  stiffness. 

When  the  painter  saw  her  appear  he  nudged  his  friend. 

He  did  not  dare  to  speak,  waiting  for  his  opinion  anx- 


310  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

iously.  He  followed  his  inspection  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye. 

His  friend  was  merciful. 

Yes,  she  is  something  like  her.  Her  eyes, — figure, — - 
expression;  she  reminds  me  of  her.  She  is  very  much 
like  her.  But  the  monkey  face  she  is  making  now !  The 
words !  No,  that  destroys  all  likeness." 

And  as  if  he  were  angry  that  that  little  girl  without 
any  voice  and  without  any  sense  of  shame,  should  be 
compared  to  the  sweet  Josephina,  he  commented  with 
sarcastic  admiration  on  all  the  cynical  expressions  with 
which  she  ended  her  couplets. 

"Very  pretty !    Very  refined !" 

But  Renovales,  deaf  to  these  ironical  remarks,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  "Fregolina,"  kept  on  pok- 
ing him  and  whispering : 

"It's  she,  isn't  it  ?  Just  exactly ;  the  same  body.  And 
besides,  the  girl  has  some  talent;  she's  funny/' 

Cotoner  nodded  ironically:  "Yes,  very."  And  when 
he  found  that  Mariano  wanted  to  stay  for  the  next  act 
and  did  not  move  from  his  seat,  he  though  of  leaving 
him.  Finally  he  stayed,  stretching  out  in  his  seat  with 
the  determination  to  have  a  nap,  lulled  by  the  music  and 
the  cries  of  the  audience. 

An  impatient  hand  aroused  him  from  his  comfortable 
doze.  "Pepe,  Pepe."  He  shook  his  head  and  opened 
his  eyes  ill-naturedly.  "What's  the  matter?"  In  Reno- 
vales'  face  he  saw  a  honeyed,  treacherous  smile,  some 
folly  that  he  wanted  to  propose  in  the  most  pleasing 
manner. 

"I  thought  we  might  go  behind  the  scenes  for  a  min- 
ute :  we  could  see  her  at  close  range." 

His  friend  answered  him  indignantly.  Mariano  thought 
he  was  a  young  buck;  he  forgot  how  he  looked.  That 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  311 

woman  would  laugh  at  them,  she  would  assume  the  air  of 
the  Chaste  Susanna,  besieged  by  the  two  old  men. 

Renovales  was  silent,  but  in  a  little  while  he  once  more 
aroused  his  friend  from  his  nap. 

"You  might  go  in  alone,  Pepe.  You  know  more  about 
these  things  than  I  do.  You  are  more  daring.  You 
might  tell  her  that  I  want  to  paint  her  portrait.  Think, 
a  portrait  with  my  signature !" 

Cotoner  started  to  laugh,  in  sheer  admiration  of  the 
princely  simplicity  with  which  the  master  gave  him  the 
commission. 

"Thank  you,  sir ;  I  am  highly  honored  by  such  a  favor, 
but  I  am  not  going.  You  confounded  fool.  Do  you 
suppose  that  girl  knows  who  Renovales  is  or  has  ever 
even  heard  of  his  name  ?" 

The  master  expressed  his  astonishment  with  childlike 
simplicity. 

"Man  alive.  I  believe  that  the  name  Renovales — that 

what  the  papers  have  said — that  my  portraits Be 

frank,  say  that  you  don't  want  to." 

And  he  was  silent,  offended  at  his  companion's  re- 
fusal and  his  doubt  that  his  fame  had  reached  this  cor- 
ner. Friends  sometimes  abuse  us  with  unexpected  scorn 
and  great  injustice. 

At  the  end  of  the  show  the  master  felt  that  he  must  do 
something,  not  go  away  without  sending  the  "Bella 
Fregolina"  some  evidence  of  his  presence.  He  bought 
an  elaborate  basket  of  flowers  from  a  flower  vendor  who 
was  starting  home,  discouraged  at  the  poor  business. 
She  should  deliver  it  immediately  to  Senorita — "Frego- 
lina." 

"Yes,  to  Pepita,"  said  the  woman  with  a  knowing  air, 
as  if  she  were  one  of  her  friends. 

"And  tell  her  it  is  from  Senor  Renovales — from  Reno- 
vales,  the  painter." 


312  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

The  woman  nodded,  repeating  the  name.  ''Very  well, 
Renovales,"  just  as  she  would  have  said  any  other  name. 
And  withottt  the  least  emotion  she  took  the  five  dollars 
which  the  painter  gave  her. 

"Five  dollars!  You  idiot/'  muttered  his  friend,  losing 
all  respect  for  him. 

Good  Cotoner  refused  to  go  with  him  after  that.  In 
vain  Renovales  talked  to  him  enthusiastically  every  night 
about  that  girl,  deeply  impressed  by  her  different  imper- 
sonations. Now  she  appeared  in  a  pale  pink  dress,  almost 
like  some  clothes  put  away  in  the  closets  of  his  house; 
now  she  entered  in  a  hat  trimmed  with  flowers  and 
cherries,  much  larger,  but  still  something  like  a  certain 
straw  hat  which  he  could  find  amid  the  confusion  of  Jose- 
phina's  old  finery.  Oh,  how  it  reminded  him  of  her! 
Every  night  he  was  struck  with  some  renewed  memory. 

Lacking  Co-toner's  assistance,  he  went  to  see  the  "Bella" 
with  some  of  the  young  fellows  of  his  disrespectful  court. 
These  boys  spoke  of  the  "star"  with  respectful  scorn, 
as  the  fox  in  the  fable  gazed  at  the  distant  grapes,  con- 
soling himself  at  the  thought  of  their  sourness.  They 
praised  her  beauty,  seen  from  a  distance;  according  to 
them  she  was  "lily-like" ;  she  had  the  holy  beauty  of  sin. 
She  was  out  of  their  reach;  she  wore  costly  jewels  and 
according  to  all  reports  had  influential  friends,  all  those 
young  gentlemen  in  dress  clothes  who  occupied  the  boxes 
during  the  last  act,  and  waited  for  her  at  the  stage  door 
to  take  her  to  dinner. 

Renovales  was  gnawed  with  impatience,  unable  to  find 
a  way  to  meet  her.  Every  night  he  sent  his  little  bas- 
kets of  flowers,  or  huge  bouquets.  The  "star"  must  be 
informed  whence  these  gifts  came,  for  she  looked  around 
the  audience  for  the  ugly  elderly  gentleman,  deigning  to 
grant  him  a  smile. 

One  night  the  master  saw  Lopez  de  Sosa  speak  to  the 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  313 

singer.  Perhaps  his  son-in-law  was  acquainted  with  her. 
And  boldly  as  a  lover,  he  waited  for  him  when  he  came 
out  to  implore  his  help. 

He  wanted  to  paint  her ;  she  was  a  magnificent  model 
for  a  certain  work  he  had  in  mind.  He  said  it  blush- 
ingly,  stammering,  but  Lopez  laughed  at  his  timidity 
and  seemed  disposed  to  protect  him. 

"Oh,  Pepita?  A  wonderful  woman,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  she  is  on  the  decline.  With  all  her  school-girl  face, 
if  you  could  only  see  her  at  a  party !  She  drinks  like  a 
fish.  She's  a  terror!" 

But  afterwards,  with  a  serious  expression,  he  explained 
the  difficulties.  She  "belonged"  to  one  of  his  friends,  a 
lad  from  the  provinces  who,  eager  to  win  notoriety,  was 
losing  one-half  his  fortune  gambling  at  the  Casino  and 
was  calmly  letting  that  girl  devour  the  other  half, — she 
gave  him  some  reputation.  He  would  speak  to  her ;  they 
were  old  friends ;  nothing  wrong — eh,  father  ?  It  would 
not  be  hard  to  persuade  her.  This  Pepita  had  a  predilec- 
tion for  anything  that  was  unusual;  she  was  rather — 
romantic.  He  would  explain  to  her  who  the  great  artist 
was,  enhancing  the  honor  of  acting  as  his  model. 

"Don't  stint  on  the  money,"  said  the  master  anxiously. 
"All  that  she  wants.  Don't  be  afraid  to  be , generous." 

One  morning  Renovates  called  Cotoner  to  talk  to  him 
with  wild  expressions  of  joy. 

"She's  going  to  come !  She's  going  to  come  this  very 
afternoon !" 

The  old  painter  looked  surprised. 

"Who?" 

"The  'Bella  Fregolina.'  Pepita.  My  son-in-law  tells 
me  he  has  persuaded  her.  She  will  come  this  afternoon 
at  three.  He  is  coming  with  her  himself." 

Then  he  cast  a  worried  glance  at  his  workshop.  For 
some  time  it  had  been  deserted ;  it  must  be  set  in  order. 


314  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

And  the  servant  on  one  side  and  the  two  artists  on  *he 
other,  began  to  tidy  up  the  room  hastily. 

The  portraits  of  Josephina  and  the  canvas  with  nothing 
but  her  head  were  piled  up  in  a  corner  by  the  master's 
feverish  hands.  What  was  the  use  of  those  phantoms 
when  the  real  thing  was  going  to  appear.  In  their  place 
he  put  a  large  white  canvas,  gazing  at  its  untouched 
surface  with  hopeful  eyes.  What  things  he  was  going 
to  do  that  afternoon!  What  a  power  for  work  he 
felt! 

When  the  two  artists  were  left  alone,  Renovales 
seemed  restless,  dissatisfied,  constantly  suspecting  that 
something  had  been  overlooked  for  this  visit,  toward 
which  he  looked  with  chills  of  anxiety.  Flowers;  they 
must  get  some  flowers,  fill  all  the  old  vases  in  the  studio, 
create  an  atmosphere  of  delicate  perfume. 

And  Cotoner  ran  through  the  garden  with  the  servant, 
plundered  the  greenhouse  and  came  in  with  an  armful 
of  flowers,  obedient  and  submissive  as  a  faithful  friend, 
but  with  a  sarcastic  reproach  in  his  eyes.  All  that  for 
the  "Bella  Fregolina" !  The  master  was  cracked ;  he  was 
in  his  second  childhood!  If  only  this  visit  would  cure 
him  of  his  mania,  which  was  almost  madness ! 

Afterwards  the  master  had  further  orders.  He  must 
provide  on  one  of  the  tables  in  the  studio  sweets,  cham- 
pagne, anything  good  he  could  find.  Cotoner  spoke  of 
sending  for  the  valet,  complaining  of  the  tasks  which 
were  imposed  on  him  as  a  result  of  the  visit  of  this  girl 
of  the  guileless  smile  and  the  vile  songs,  who  stood  with 
arms  akimbo. 

'"No,  Pepe,"  the  master  implored.  "Listen— I  don't 
want  the  valet  to  know.  He  talks  afterward ;  my  daugh- 
ter probes  him  with  questions." 

Cotoner  went  away  with  a  resigned  expression  and 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  315 

when  he  returned  an  hour  later,  he  found  Renovales  in 
the  model's  room  arranging  some  clothes. 

The  old  painter  lined  up  his  packages  on  the  table. 
He  put  the  confectionery  in  antique  plates  and  took  the 
bottles  out  of  their  wrappers. 

"You  are  served,  sir,"  he  said  with  ironical  respect. 
"Do  you  wish  anything  else,  sir  ?  The  whole  family  is  in 
a  state  of  revolution  over  this  noble  lady;  your  son-in- 
law  is  bringing  her;  I  am  acting  as  your  valet;  all  you 
need  now  is  to  send  for  your  daughter  to  help  her  un- 
dress." 

''Thanks,  Pepe,  thanks  ever  so  much,"  said  the  master 
with  naive  gratitude,  apparently  undisturbed  by  his 
jests. 

At  luncheon  time  Cotoner  saw  him  come  into  the  din- 
ing-room with  his  hair  carefully  combed,  his  mustache 
curled,  wearing  his  best  suit  with  a  rose  in  the  button- 
hole. The  Bohemian  laughed  boisterously.  The  last 
straw !  He  was  crazy ;  they  would  make  sport  of  him ! 

The  master  scarcely  touched  the  meal.  Afterwards  he 
walked  up  and  down  alone  in  the  studio.  How  slowly  the 
time  went!  At  each  turn  through  the  three  studios  he 
looked  at  the  hands  of  an  old  clock  of  Saxon  china, 
which  stood  on  a  table  of  colored  marble,  with  its  back 
reflected  in  a  tall,  Venetian  mirror. 

It  was  already  three.  The  master  wondered  if  she  was 
not  going  to  come.  Quarter  past  three, — half-past  three. 
No,  she  was  not  coming;  it  was  past  the  time.  Those 
women  who  live  amid  obligations  and  demands,  without 
a  minute  to  themselves ! 

Suddenly  he  heard  steps  and  Cotoner  entered. 

"She  is  here;  here  she  comes.  Good  luck,  master. 
Have  a  good  time !  I  guess  you  have  imposed  on  me  long 
enough  and  will  not  expect  me  to  stay." 

He  went  out  waving  him  an  ironical  farewell  and  a 


316  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

little  later  Renovales  heard  Lopez  de  Sosa's  voice,  ap- 
proaching slowly,  explaining  to  his  companion  the  pic- 
tures and  furniture  which  attracted  her  attention. 

They  entered.  The  "Bella  Fregolina"  looked  aston- 
ished; she  seemed  intimidated  by  the  majestic  silence  of 
the  studio.  What  a  big,  princely  house,  so  different  from 
all  those  she  had  seen !  That  ancient,  solid,  historic  lux- 
ury with  its  rare  furniture  rilled  her  with  fear!  She 
looked  at  Renovales  with  great  respect.  He  seemed  to 
her  more  distinguished  than  that  other  man  whom  she 
had  seen  indistinctly  in  the  orchestra  of  her  little  theater. 
He  was  awe-inspiring,  as  if  he  were  a  great  personage, 
different  from  all  the  men  with  whom  she  had  had  to 
do.  To  her  fear  was  added  a  sort  of  admiration.  How 
much  money  that  old  boy  must  have,  living  in  such 
style ! 

Renovales,  too,  was  deeply  moved  when  he  saw  her  so 
close  at  hand. 

At  first  he  hesitated.  Was  she  really  like  the  other? 
The  paint  on  her  face  disconcerted  him — the  layer  of 
rouge  with  black  lines  about  the  eyes — visible  through  the 
veil.  The  other  did  not  paint.  But  when  he  looked  at  her 
eyes,  the  striking  resemblance  rose  again,  and  starting 
from  them  he  gradually  restored  the  beloved  face  under 
the  layers  of  pomade. 

The  "star"  examined  the  canvases  which  covered  the 
walls.  How  pretty !  And  did  this  gentleman  do  all  that  ? 
She  wanted  to  see  herself  like  that,  proud  and  beautiful  in 
a  canvas.  Did  he  truly  want  to  paint  her  ?  And  she  drew 
herself  up  vainly,  delighted  that  people  thought  she  was 
beautiful,  that  she  would  enjoy  the  emotion  until  then 
unknown  of  seeing  her  image  reproduced  by  a  great  art- 
ist. 

Lopez  de  Sosa  excused  himself  to  his  father-in-law. 
She  was  to  blame  for  their  being  late.  You  could  never 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  317 

get  a  woman  like  that  to  hurry.  She  went  to  bed  at  day- 
break ;  he  had  found  her  in  bed. 

Then  he  said  good-by,  understanding  the  embarrass- 
ment his  presence  might  cause.  Pepita  was  a  good  girl, 
she  was  dazzled  by  his  works  and  the  appearance  of 
the  house.  The  master  could  do  what  he  wanted  with 
her. 

"Well,  little  girl,  you  stay  here.  The  gentleman  is  my 
father;  I  told  you  already.  Be  sure  and  be  a  good 
girl." 

And  he  went  out,  followed  by  the  forced  laugh  of 
them  both,  who  greeted  this  recommendation  with  uneasy 
merriment. 

A  long  and  painful  silence  followed.  The  master  did 
not  know  what  to  say.  Timidity  and  emotion  weighed 
on  his  will.  She  seemed  no  less  disturbed.  That  great 
room,  so  silent  and  imposing  with  its  massive,  superb 
decorations,  different  from  anything  she  had  seen,  fright- 
ened her.  She  felt  the  vague  terror  which  precedes  an 
unknown  operation.  Besides,  she  was  disturbed  by  the 
man's  glowing  eyes  fixed  on  her,  with  a  quiver  on  his 
cheeks  and  a  twitching  of  his  lips,  as  if  they  were  tor- 
mented by  thirst. 

She  soon  recovered  from  her  timidity.  She  was  used 
to  these  moments  of  shamefaced  silence  which  came  with 
the  lone  meeting  of  two  strangers.  She  knew  these 
interviews  which  begin  hesitatingly  and  end  in  rough 
familiarity. 

She  looked  around  with  a  professional  smile,  eager  to 
end  the  unpleasant  situation  as  soon  as  possible. 

"When  you  will.    Where  shall  I  undress?" 

Renovales  started  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  that  that  image  could  speak.  The  sim- 
plicity with  which  she  dispensed  with  explanations  sur- 
prised him  likewise. 


SIS  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

His  son-in-law  did  things  well;  he  had  brought  her 
well  coached,  callous  to  all  surprises. 

The  master  showed  her  the  way  to  the  model's  room 
and  remained  outside,  prudently,  turning  his  head  with- 
out knowing  why,  so  as  not  to  see  through  the  half- 
opened  door.  There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  by  the 
rustle  of  falling  clothes,  the  metallic  click  of  buttons 
and  hooks.  Suddenly  her  voice  came  to  the  master, 
smothered,  distant  with  a  sort  of  timidity. 

"My  stockings  too?    Must  I  take  them  off?" 

Renovales  knew  this  objection  of  all  models  when  they 
undressed  for  the  first  time.  Lopez  de  Sosa,  carrying  his 
desire  of  pleasing  his  father  to  the  extreme,  had  spoken 
to  her  of  giving  her  body  wholly  and  she  undressed 
without  asking  any  further  explanations,  with  the  calm 
of  accepted  duty,  thinking  that  her  presence  there  was 
absurd  for  any  other  purpose. 

The  painter  came  out  of  his  silence;  he  called  to  her 
uneasily.  She  must  not  stay  undressed.  In  the  room 
there  were  clothes  for  her  to  put  on.  And  without  turn- 
ing his  head,  reaching  his  arm  through  the  half  open 
door  he  pointed  out  blindly  what  he  had  left.  There  was 
a  pink  dress,  a  hat,  shoes,  stockings,  a  shirt. 

Pepita  protested  when  she  saw  these  cast-off  garments, 
showing  an  aversion  to  putting  on  those  underclothes 
which  seemed  worn  and  old. 

"The  shirt,  too?  The  stockings?  No,  the  dress  is 
enough." 

But  the  master  begged  her  impatiently.  She  must  put 
them  all  on;  his  painting  demanded  it.  The  long  silence 
of  the  girl  proved  that  she  was  complying,  putting  on 
these  old  garments,  overcoming  her  repugnance. 

When  she  came  out  of  the  room  she  smiled  with  a  sort 
of  pity,  as  if  she  were  laughing  at  herself.  Renovales 
drew  back,  stirred  by  his  own  work,  bewildered,  feeling 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  Si 9 

his  temples  throbbing,  fancying  that  the  pictures  and  fur- 
niture were  whirling  about  him. 

Poor  "Fregolina"!  What  a  delightful  clown!  She 
felt  like  laughing  at  the  thought  of  the  storm  of  cries 
which  would  burst  out  in  her  theater  if  she  should  appear 
on  the  stage  dressed  in  this  fashion,  of  the  jests  of  her 
friends  if  she  should  come  into  one  of  their  dinners  in 
these  clothes  of  twenty  years  ago.  She  did  not  know 
these  styles,  and  to  her  they  seemed  to  belong  to  a 
remote  antiquity.  The  master  leaned  over  the  back  of 
a  chair. 

"Josephina !    Josephina !" 

It  was  she,  such  as  he  kept  her  in  his  memory — as  she 
was  that  happy  summer  in  the  Roman  mountains,  in  her 
pink  dress  and  that  rustic  hat  which  gave  her  the  dainty 
air  of  a  village  girl  in  the  ope^a.  Those  fashions  at 
which  the  younger  generation  laughed  were  for  him  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  artistic  that  feminine  taste  had 
ever  produced ;  they  recalled  the  spring  of  his  life. 

"Josephina !    Josephina !" 

He  remained  silent,  for  these  exclamations  were  born 
and  died  in  his  thoughts.  He  did  not  dare  to  move  or 
speak,  for  fear  this  apparition  of  his  dreams  would  van- 
ish. She,  smiling,  was  delighted  at  the  effect  her  appear- 
ance had  on  the  painter  and  seeing  her  reflection  in  a 
distant  mirror,  recognized  that  in  this  strange  costume  she 
did  not  look  at  all  badly. 

"Where  shall  I  go?    Sitting  or  standing?" 

The  master  could  hardly  speak;  his  voice  was  hoarse, 
labored. 

She  could  pose  as  she  wished.  And  she  sat  down  in  a 
chair  adopting  a  posture  which  she  considered  very 
graceful — her  cheek  on  one  hand,  her  legs  crossed,  just 
as  she  was  wont  to  sit  in  the  green  room  of  the  theater, 


S20  WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

showing  a  bit  of  open-work  pink  silk  stocking  under  her 
skirt.  That  too  reminded  the  painter  of  the  other. 

It  was  she!  She  sat  before  his  eyes  in  bodily  form, 
with  the  perfume  of  the  form  he  loved. 

From  instinct,  from  habit,  he  took  up  his  palette  and  a 
brush  stained  with  black,  trying  to  trace  the  outlines  of 
that  figure.  Ah,  his  hand  was  old,  heavy,  trembling! 
Where  had  his  old  time  skill  fled,  his  drawing,  his  striking 
qualities  ?  Had  he  really  ever  painted  ?  Was  he  truly  the 
painter  Renovates?  He  had  suddenly  forgotten  every- 
thing. His  head  seemed  empty,  his  hand  paralyzed,  the 
white  canvas  filled  him  with  a  terror  of  the  unknown. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  paint ;  he  could  not  paint.  His 
efforts  were  useless ;  his  mind  was  deadened.  Perhaps, — 
some  other  day.  Now  his  ears  hummed,  his  face  was 
pale,  his  ears  were  red,  purple,  as  if  they  were  on  the 
point  of  dripping  blood.  In  his  mouth  he  felt  the  torment 
of  a  deathly  thirst. 

The  "Bella  Fregolina"  saw  him  throw  down  his 
palette  and  come  toward  her  with  a  wild  expression. 

But  she  felt  no  fear;  she  knew  those  distorted  faces. 
This  sudden  rush  was  no  doubt  part  of  the  program; 
she  was  warned  when  she  went  there  after  her  friendly 
conversation  with  the  son-in-law.  That  gentleman,  so 
serious  and  so  imposing,  was  like  all  the  men  she  knew, 
as  brutal  as  .the  rest. 

She  saw  him  come  to  her  with  open  arms,  take  her  in 
a  close  embrace,  fall  at  her  feet  with  a  hoarse  cry,  as  if  he 
were  stifling;  and  she,  gently  and  sympathetically  en- 
couraged him,  bending  her  head,  offering  her  lips  with  an 
automatic  loving  expression  which  was  the  implement  of 
her  profession. 

The  kiss  was  enough  to  overcome  the  master  com- 
pletely. 

"  Josephina !    Josephina !" 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT  321 

The  perfume  of  the  happy  days  rose  from  her  clothes, 
surrounding  her  adorable  person.  It  was  her  form,  her 
flesh !  He  was  going  to  die  at  her  feet,  suffocated  by  the 
immense  desire  that  swelled  within  him.  It  was  she ; 
her  very  eyes — her  eyes!  And  as  he  raised  his  glance 
to  lose  himself  in  their  soft  pupils,  to  gaze  at  himself  in 
their  trembling  mirror,  he  saw  two  cold  eyes,  which 
examined  him,  half  closed  with  professional  curiosity, 
taking  a  scornful  delight  from  their  calm  height  in  this 
intoxication  of  the  flesh,  this  madness  which  groveled, 
moaning  with  desire. 

Renovales  was  thunderstruck  with  surprise;  he  felt 
something  icy  run  down  his  back,  paralyzing  him;  his 
eyes  were  veiled  with  a  cloud  of  disappointment  and 
sorrow. 

Was  it  really  Josephina  whom  he  had  in  his  arms  ?  It 
was  her  body,  her  perfume,  her  clothes,  her  beauty,  pale 
as  a  dying  flower.  But  no,  it  was  not  she !  Those  eyes ! 
In  vain  did  they  look  at  him  differently,  alarmed  at  this 
sudden  reaction ;  in  vain  they  softened  with  a  tender  light, 
trained  by  habit.  The  deceit  was  useless ;  he  saw  beyond, 
he  penetrated  through  those  bright  windows  into  the 
depths;  he  found  only  emptiness.  The  other's  soul  was 
not  there.  That  maddening  perfume  no  longer  moved 
him ;  it  was  a  false  essence.  He  had  before  him  merely 
a  reproduction  of  the  beloved  vase,  but  the  incense,  the 
soul,  lost  forever. 

Renovales,  standing  up,  drew  away  from  her,  looking 
at  that  woman  with  terror  in  his  eyes,  and  finally  threw 
himself  on  a  couch,  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  girl,  hearing  him  sob,  was  afraid  and  ran  toward 
the  models'  room  to  take  off  those  clothes,  to  flee.  The 
man  must  be  mad. 

The  master  was  weeping.  Farewell,  youth !  Farewell 
desire !  Farewell  dreams ;  enchanting  sirens  of  life,  that 


WOMAN  TRIUMPHANT 

have  fled  forever.  Useless  the  search,  useless  the  strug- 
gle in  the  solitude  of  life.  Death  had  him  in  his  grasp, 
he  was  his  and  only  through  him  could  he  renew  his 
youth.  These  images  were  useless.  He  could  not  find 
another  to  call  up  the  memory  of  the  dead  like  this  hired 
woman  whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms — and  still,  it  was 
not  she ! 

At  the  supreme  moment,  on  the  verge  of  reality,  that 
indefinable  something  had  vanished,  that  something  which 
had  been  enclosed  in  the  body  of  his  Josephina,  of  his 
majaf  whom  he  had  worshiped  in  the  nights  of  his 
youth. 

Immense,  irreparable  disappointment  flooded  his  body 
with  the  icy  calm  of  old  age. 

Fall,  ye  towers  of  illusion!  Sink,  ye  castles  of  fancy, 
built  with  the  longing  to  make  the  way  fair,  to  hide  the 
horizon!  The  path  still  remained  unbroken,  barren  and 
deserted.  In  vain  would  he  sit  by  the  roadside,  putting 
off  the  hour  of  his  departure,  in  vain  would  he  bow  his 
head  that  he  might  not  see.  The  longer  his  rest,  the 
longer  his  fearful  torment.  At  every  hour  he  was 
destined  to  gaze  at  the  dreaded  end  of  the  last  journey — 
unclouded,  undisturbed — the  dwelling  from  which  there 
is  no  return — the  black,  greedy  abyss — death! 


J» 

„.-»-* 


><p 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  BATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

INITIAL    FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

OVERDUE. 


FEB  26  1933 

NOV  22  1933 

JUN    10  1936 


DEC  21 

AY  20  1939 
JUN    3   1939 

'56HK 


.51968 


LD 


J 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


